


A Scholarly Pursuit

by Acacia Carter (xaandria)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, KIND of canon, M/M, Plants, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Acacia%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville has lead a mostly quiet life, widely known as a foremost scholar in his field and a much-liked professor at Hogwarts. One evening, everything is turned on its head by a visit from an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Welcome Intrusion

The office was silent except for the scratching of a quill on parchment and the tuneless humming of a happy Bortbeetle burying itself in the soil of the Icenettle plant potted in the corner. The candles floating above the desk did not flicker; the inhabitant of the office had recently learned a charm to make them burn with a clear, constant light that was much better for writing.

The knock at the door did not disturb him, however, as he was expecting it. “Come,” he said, laying aside his quill.

His student assistant, a mousey-haired girl in her fourth year, poked her head in. “You've a visitor, Professor,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, Posy. I'll be out to meet him shortly. How are the cuttings?”

“Nearly done, Professor. You'll have eight extra, assuming you use one as a demonstration.”

“Good work. You can head back to your dormitory when you're finished, and you can take five points to Hufflepuff as well.”

Posy beamed as she quietly shut the door behind her. She did everything quietly. Neville found that he preferred quiet more often than not, at least in the evenings.

“ _Dessico_ ,” he muttered, tapping the parchment with his wand. The glistening black ink dried instantly and he rolled the parchment and sent it to a rack with an absent flick of the wand as he glanced at his clock. A quarter past seven. Posy really had made good time on those cuttings.

Neville hummed to himself as he opened the door to his office, a stout stone outbuilding with a domed roof situated to the side of the greenhouses in one of Hogwarts' courtyards. The skylights let in ample light for his more favored specimens that he didn't trust to the student greenhouses; below the ground-level office lay his sleeping quarters and sitting room. It was, he admitted to himself as he straightened his robes, a bit isolated from the rest of the faculty, but he rather liked it that way.

Beneath a lamp by Greenhouse Two, a familiar silhouette peered in the glass walls. His face was slightly illuminated by the lights inside the greenhouse, presumably Posy finishing the cuttings for the first years tomorrow, and Neville smiled.

“Mr. Potter,” he said as he approached on the crushed stone path. Harry Potter turned and his face lit up with a grin.

“Professor Longbottom,” Harry said with a teasingly formal bow. He then thrust his hand out and Neville shook it heartily.

“It's been a good while,” Neville said. “Let's go back to my office, I've a concoction for you to try—distilled it myself—not that I'd like the Headmistress to get word of it, mind you,” he added in a lower tone.

“Sure,” Harry said.

The sitting room was small, but not crowded—Harry leaned back in a squashy red armchair while Neville busied himself in the corner at his liquor cabinet.

“Icenettle doesn't take to fermenting well, you see, at least not the leaves,” Neville said as he brought out two glass tumblers. “Most nettles make a passable wine, but this—it tasted like fish! But, I found that if you let a Bortbeetle reside in the pot, it causes the taproot to grow to three times its size and then the root itself can be used for, well, it will _do_ for wine but where it really shines is when you distill the wine to brandy.”

“I don't think I've heard of Bortbeetles before,” Harry said with a small smile.

“I hadn't either, until I came across an essay by one of those Druidic sorts—you know, the ones who live in the forest and grow up around herb lore and not much else. They make their own wands, did you know? Ah, here we go—cheers,” Neville said, sinking into the chair opposite Harry and handing him the tumbler of clear, light purple liquid.

“Cheers,” Harry said, and took a sip. Neville watched expectantly. “Not bad,” Harry said, holding the glass to eye level and swirling the liquid.

“Glad to hear it,” Neville said, settling himself back in the cushions of the chair.

They sat in the comfortable quiet of two friends who know each other well. Neville could tell from the way Harry continually swirled the brandy in his glass that he was rehearsing something to say; he knew Harry would say it when it had ripened. For now, the company was nice.

“How are you doing?” Harry finally asked, a little pointedly. Neville wilted a little, knowing what aspect of his life that question was directed to.

“As well as can be expected. It was a difficult pregnancy to begin with...they did all they could...Hogwarts paid for her funeral, hers and Daisy's.” The lump he had expected in his throat did not surface, merely a dull ache in his chest. “Daisy would have been four years old last week. It's been a rough couple of years, but I'm holding together.” Neville took a deep breath and gave himself a tiny shake. “And you?”

Harry sighed and reached into his robes to take out a packet of parchment. He handed it across to Neville, who reached absently for the reading spectacles on the low table by his chair. He unfolded the parchment and began to read the stiff, formal-looking writing in blue ink.

“Harry,” he said in astonishment, looking over his spectacles. “These are divorce papers.”

Harry nodded miserably. “Drawn up this morning. We're...still not sure how we're going to tell the kids, although I think they've guessed, or at least James has. Al and Lil are still a bit young, and now that Al's here most of the year...” Harry crossed his hand tiredly over his eyes.

“I knew you and Ginny were having problems, but...cripes in a stew, Harry,” Neville said, placing the papers on the table between them and removing his spectacles. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to really be sorry over, except the bitter lesson that perhaps love doesn't conquer all,” Harry said wearily. “I can't deny that I still love her, but...Merlin's beard, she manipulates like a salamander smolders. Doesn't even realize she's doing it, doesn't even have to think on it. Growing up the youngest of seven, and the only girl at that, I guess she got used to getting what she wanted. I can't stand being manipulated—I've had enough of that in my life, thank you. And then there was the thing with Oliver—“

“Oliver? The reporter?”

“The same,” Harry said grimly. “He at least had the decency to come apologize to me, tell me he hadn't intended a harmless flirtation to go so far, but the damage is done and I still think I'd rather punch him in the face than forgive him.”

“Can't say as I blame you,” Neville murmured. “What are you going to do with the kids?”

“Ginny gets them during the summer holidays, as she doesn't work-though she'll probably find a job now, unless Molly lets her move back home and raise the kids there. It's a definite possibility. I'll technically have them for the Christmas and Easter hols, and a least a few weeks during the summer, but as Christmas is a time for family we'll be over at the Weasley's then, too...” Harry sighed and took another slow sip from his glass. “It's as amicable a divorce as it can be. We can tolerate each other, even be friendly. And we have our children. But hell's bells...it's actually a relief to know that I don't have to go home to her tonight.”

Neville nodded almost absently. A small notion, one he thought he had stamped down nearly twenty years ago, was niggling to the front of his brain.

It was not a good idea. It could even be a terrible idea. It had a worse chance of succeeding than a canary in a cat fight.

But if it did...

He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Your place is going to be mightily empty this summer.”

Harry nodded, staring into the depths of his glass.

“I'll be going to a conference in Salem on herbological and botanic discoveries in July,” he continued. “I plan to stay in America for a few weeks or so—the climate in the southern United States and Mexico fosters some incredible flora that I can't cultivate here—and I could use a traveling partner.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “I could use some time away from work,” he said thoughtfully. “If I have to arrest one more stupid teenager Imperiusing his neighbor's cat to bring back girls' knickers, I think I may resign.” He looked up. “I don't mean to knock your profession, Neville, or your enthusiasm...but there would be more than trotting around looking at plants, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Neville said with mock seriousness. “There will also be trotting around looking at fungi, and trotting around looking at kelp. Kelp's not a true plant, you know.” He smiled at the hint of dismay on Harry's face, though he hid it well. “I promise we will spend at least forty percent of the time sightseeing like Muggles, and at least one week will be spent on a sunny beach where we can both attempt to forget our problems.”

Harry thought for a moment. “I'll have to see if I can get the time from work. Barring that, though, thank you for inviting me. I think I would enjoy that very much.”

Neville hoped so. There was a better than even chance that the trip would be quite the opposite from enjoyable—but the dice had been thrown. Nothing to do now but hope and count the pips.


	2. Bee in your Bonnet

“Ma’am,” Neville said politely to the Muggle woman at the desk, “There must be some misunderstanding. I changed my booking to a double room three months ago.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Longbottom,” the woman at the desk said, sounding truly apologetic. “We tried calling you, but we must have gotten the wrong number, and the hotel is booked solid for the next several days. There are several conventions in town this week. I would be happy to add a roll-away bed to your room at no charge.”

Neville sighed and looked at Harry. Harry shrugged. “It’ll do.”

“I’ll take the roll-away, but we will be in town for two more days. If any double rooms open up—”

“I’ll be sure to place you on an alert list, sir,” the woman said hurriedly.

“Thank you. My key?”

The woman handed over two plastic cards. Neville accepted them and he and Harry trudged to the elevator.

“I’m sorry,” Neville apologized. “I thought they’d gotten my request. I keep forgetting that the Muggle world works by telephone, not post.”

“It’s not a problem, mate,” Harry said, clapping Neville on the shoulder. In a lower voice, he added, “I’m sure if it’s horrid, I can transfigure it into something more comfortable.”

“Oh, I was intending to take the roll-away,” Neville protested.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve got a conference to go to. You need good rest. Take the bed.”

“I—”

“I’m going to insist,” Harry said. A mischievous grin bloomed on his face. “I’ll take a page out of Lil’s book and say I’ll hold my breath until you do what I want.”

“And exactly how well does that work?” Neville asked, amused.

“Ginny usually gives in, but I think it’s a good talent to develop. She’s up to three minutes now, it’s actually quite impressive...”

Neville chuckled as they paused in front of their door, then puzzled over the key card for a moment before furtively glancing around the hotel hallway, removing his wand from his sleeve, and muttering “ _Alohomora_.” He had always prided himself on the level of familiarity he’d gained with Muggle adaptations, but sometimes the fiddly bits were just irritating.

The room was rather small, the hotel being old and this being one of their least expensive rooms. Neville tried to figure out where a roll-away bed would fit and concluded that it would either have to be pushed right up between the real bed and the dresser or suspended from the ceiling.

A small voice in his head suggested a lot of very interesting developments that could arise from the first option. Neville very firmly shut that small voice in a very tight box and stacked it away.

“Not a lot of room for a roll-away,” Harry noted as he began unbuttoning his shirt. “Cripes, but it’s warm here. Glad I packed some lighter clothes.”

Neville’s eyebrows raised themselves in surprise before he could completely get them under control, and he tried to change the expression into a wise nod. “They’re having a heat wave this year in this part of the country. I imagine you’ll be in short sleeves for most of our trip.” As Harry removed his shirt Neville nonchalantly turned to his own satchel, putting the now wildly gibbering small voice into yet another box and locking it firmly. He concurred with it, though: the fitness regime to which magical law enforcement had to conform obviously agreed with Harry.

It agreed with Neville, too.

 

* * *

 

Harry was not in the room when Neville returned later from the first day of his conference, which did not surprise him. If he had met with colleagues, like he had said he might, he would likely not be back until evening, and it was only late afternoon.

Neville thankfully removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie; he was fairly certain that even the greenhouses at Hogwarts did not get as warm as the conference hall had that day. Eighty witches and wizards in one conference hall with no windows did not make for a cool environment.

But the day had not been a total loss, not at all; his presentation on the value of cultured symbiosis between indigenous magical insects and plants had gone over quite well, and the presentation after his about the use of dragon dung ash instead of dragon dung itself as fertilizer had the scholarly corner of his mind planning all sorts of experiments he could set up back home, particularly with the Wilting Willow on the grounds by the lake that was looking just a little too wilted...

There was a heavy knock on the door of the room that made Neville jump. He walked the few steps to the door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Reese Fenton, FBI,” came the response. Neville blinked and opened the door.

Indeed, a bulky man in a black suit and sunglasses stood at the door, holding his badge to the crack at the door for identification. Neville looked at it—really, he had no choice, as it was firmly in his face. _Federal Bureau of Incantations_ , it read, on a shield with two crossed wands and an eagle.

“Is...there a problem?” he asked, somewhat timidly.

“You are Professor Neville Longbottom, of Hogwarts School?”

“Yes?”

“This morning, at approximately seven fifteen am local time, did you use an _Alohomora_ charm to force entry into this Muggle hotel unit?”

Neville swallowed. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“Answer the question, sir,” Fenton said evenly. Neville and Fenton stared off until a twitch at the corner of Fenton’s mouth gave him away, and Neville began to laugh.

“All right, Harry,” he said, opening the door all the way and stepping into the hallway. “Come out and introduce me to your friend — in the _proper_ and _polite_ and _not mental_ fashion!”

Harry emerged from around the corner, bent over in laughter. “Should have heard yourself,” he gasped.

“Yes, yes,” Neville said, suppressing a blush. “I’m sure it was hilarious.” Harry took a deep breath and straightened, the corners of his eyes still crinkled in laughter.

“Neville, this is Reese Fenton. I worked with him on an international murder case seven years ago. Reese, this is Neville Longbottom, a friend from my Hogwarts years and current travel companion.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Reese said, dropping the intimidating monotone and grasping Neville’s proffered hand.

“Likewise. Harry, you are a terrible person and I hate you. That means you are paying for dinner tonight.”

“Spoilsport,” Harry said with a false scowl. “Reese, anywhere good around here that’s not filled to the brim with Muggles? I don’t much fancy looking over my shoulder every time I want to take out my wand.”

Reese nodded. “I know a place. Not far. I’ll drive.”

 

* * *

 

“So then,” Reese said, pausing to sip his beer, “the guy takes out his wand, right? Points it at the guy kissing his wife, and yells ‘DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!’” He shook his head. “Apparently it’s just as effective as Avada Kedavra. Just very, very messy.”

“I’ll bet,” Neville said, grimacing at the mental image of a person being sublimated into a fine pink mist.

“We’ve eventually got the guy surrounded, he panics, and Disapparates JUST before the body bind hits him. We have no idea where he’s gone, we have to do a full continental alert for him—but he had the brass heavies to Apparate across the fuckin’ _ocean_.” Reese shook his head again. “So now it’s not just a national problem, it’s an international problem, and I get sent over to London once we got a whiff of him. And that’s where I first met Harry.”

“Right,” Harry said, picking up a chip and using it to gesture. “Shacklebolt calls me into this office where this damn Yank is standing, not even proper robes, and tells me I get to work with him until we catch the guy. Tells me that he didn’t use a proper Avada Kedavra, so there’s no way to trace it. Tells me the failed body bind clouded up the Disapparation traces, so we can’t use that. Said they had found his wand discarded, so we can’t even trace the wand signatures. And I ask him, ‘Is there ANYTHING we can bloody go on, or are we just going to wander around Britain with a picture and a prayer?”

“And that’s exactly what it came down to. For three months,” Reese completed. “Got to know Harry rather well. Got some good experience—rookies don’t often get to do that kind of footwork.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t often get to work with others,” Harry said, reaching out to ruffle Reese’s hair, “Particularly not ones that are half my age.”

“Aw, come on,” Reese protested as Neville tried to drown a sudden spike of jealousy with a sip of scotch. “I’m eight years your junior, if that.”

“I’m now the unofficial liaison between the FBI and Aurors,” Harry continued, “Seeing as how I managed to keep my partner alive in the firefight that ensued once we tracked the git down in Edinburgh. And that, as they say, was that.” He took a bite of pickle and sat back in satisfaction.

“Quite a story,” Neville said as he helped himself to the plate of chips in the middle.

“Not so extraordinary, when you consider what we do for a living,” Reese said. “What about you? How did you and Harry meet?”

“We were in the same dormitory at Hogwarts,” Neville responded. “It was a bit of a shock, at first, because of how well-known Harry was—I don’t know how much you all across the pond got involved in the rise of Voldemort -”

“Very,” Reese said, suddenly serious. “We may have been removed from most of it, but we had our own splinter terrorist groups forming here when he first came to power, and they reignited when he returned. It was a grim time, but probably not nearly as bad as in Britain.”

“So you know the kind of figure Harry Potter was,” Neville pressed.

“Of course.”

“So imagine you’re eleven years old, going to a school where you’re scared you’re going to fail, and in the same dormitory, same room, and same classes as you is the famous Harry Potter.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Neville could see Harry’s brows knitted slightly in interest.

“I knew him, of course,” he continued. “You don’t share a room with someone for nine months out of the year and not get to know them. But I had always convinced myself, probably because he had closer friends, that he never really noticed me.”

“That’s not true,” Harry protested, leaning forward. “I definitely noticed you. Perhaps not always in the most...flattering...light, but I did notice.” He turned to Reese. “Once Neville stopped being so reserved he started turning into one of the most accomplished wizards I’d ever met. He organized an underground refugee operation for other students when Death Eaters took over the school. He could produce a Patronus at sixteen. There wasn’t a jinx or curse that could get through his shields, and he could disarm you faster than you could say ‘Quiddich.’” He smiled at Neville’s slack-jawed face. “Of course I noticed you, you lummox.”

“So, ah, anyway,” Neville said, swallowing and mentally shaking himself. “Harry doesn’t come back to school his seventh year. Who else is going to organize a resistance, keep the other kids safe until he gets back? So, I tried my very best to pretend to be him.”

“Load of tosh,” Harry said, taking a swig of beer. “You were you all along, and you were fantastic.” He over-pronounced the syllables of the last word in the way of the slightly drunk. “And then he stood toe-to-toe with Voldemort himself, and a pack of Death Eaters besides, and practically spat in his face. _While on fire._ Don’t let his mild-manneredness fool you, Reese, Neville’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Neville was glad for the dim lighting in the room, because there was some hope that it would hide his blush.

“So Harry ended up killing Voldemort,” he continued hurriedly, though he wouldn’t have minded hearing Harry praise him a bit more, “As I’m sure you all heard, and we worked at the Ministry for a short while before I was asked back to Hogwarts as a professor. We somewhat fell out of touch—an owl here, a visit there—until a few months ago.”

“Divorce,” Harry interjected, jabbing his thumb at his chest to indicate himself. “Needed a friend around.”

“A...friend,” Reese said, pausing deliberately. He winked at Neville. “Got it.”

His face began to burn a bit more and he glanced at Harry, who hadn’t seemed to pick up on the insinuation. “Ah, not...well, my wife died four years ago, and...” Oh griffon’s balls, he was just digging himself deeper. Reese kept smiling knowingly, Harry continued to sit there, oblivious, and Neville pushed back his chair. “I need another drink,” he announced. “You lot want anything from the bar?”

“I want to have a look at their beers on tap,” Reese announced, also pushing his chair back. “Harry, guard our table.”

“Yessir,” Harry said with a lazy salute. Neville had no option but to accompany Reese to the bar.

“Look,” Reese said seriously as they leaned against the bar, waiting for the bartender to have a free moment. “I know Harry well enough to know how totally oblivious to everything he is.” He looked pointedly at Neville. “He is never going to know until you make it perfectly clear what you’re after.”

“I’m not after anything,” Neville lied. Reese didn’t look convinced, so he added, “And at any rate, it’s far too late at this point in our lives to do anything about it if I was.”

Reese snorted. “Bullshit. You haven’t even hit forty yet. Assuming you don’t do something stupid, you’ve both got a good eighty years left in you.” He leaned closer. “I’m trying to do you a favor here. Because I also know Harry well enough to know that should you finally get it through his skull that you’re interested...” Reese gave a half shrug. “There’s a good chance he’ll be receptive.”

“And you know this firsthand?” Neville said a little coldly. Reese snorted as the bartender turned to them.

“Of course not. He’s just slightly too male for my personal tastes. But trust me. I’ll have a Pesker’s Blond, please, and my friend here would like another Cinderhawk Fifteen.”

Neville looked back over his shoulder at Harry. Harry waved, a wide smile shining on his face.

 _All right, little stupid voice_ , he thought to himself. _You go ahead and do your thing_.


	3. An Apt Representation

Even after Harry had taught Neville the finer points of a thermostat and the room began to cool down, it was still just slightly too hot for him to do anything but lie on his back and feel sticky. It gave him a lot of time to think.

At first he tried distracting himself. He listed the questions he wanted to ask Phillip Drewson the next day about decursing Wellyblossoms. He went over the schedule of places he wanted to go in the next few days, and what he’d need to do when he got there-he was fairly sure he’d primed Greenhouse Eight to mimic the conditions in which a Mala Mujer would grow, so he’d need to take a cutting, which would mean he’d need his dragonhide gloves to obtain the sample and a glass jar to keep the sample in...

Somehow, even the excitement of plotting the acquisition of a new cutting was not thrilling enough to distract him from the slow, even breathing of the man in the roll-away bed not five feet from him, shirtless and in thin pajama bottoms, sheet tangled between his legs. Neville set his jaw and refused to turn his head to look at him. Just because a man he’d met not seven hours ago had told him Harry would likely be receptive didn’t mean Neville could ogle him.

Though he did have such nice shoulders...

Neville snapped his head back around and stared at the ceiling fan as it made its lazy revolutions. _One...two...three..._

He’d gotten to forty-three and his eyes had begun to feel heavy when Harry sprang into a sitting position, gasping and casting his gaze about wildly. Neville, startled, sat up as well.

“Harry?” he asked. “You all right?”

“Y-yes,” Harry said, swallowing. “I’m fine. Just...a bit of a nightmare. That’s all.” He lowered himself back down to his pillow. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t asleep yet.” Neville also lowered himself to his pillow, drawing his sheet up to his chin before casting it away again. It may as well have been a quilt.

The air conditioner hummed. The chain on the ceiling fan clinked.

“D’you still have them? Nightmares? About...” Harry didn’t finish.

“Sometimes,” Neville admitted. “I had a lot more back when it was fresh. Still get them now and again.”

“I should let you know, so’s I don’t startle you every night...I’m prone to them rather frequently. If I get up and walk around, or toss and turn a bit...it’s nothing.” Harry shifted on his bed. “I’ve had them nearly every night since the divorce. Something about an empty bed seems to make it worse.”

Neville’s heart skipped a beat. That couldn’t possibly be an...invitation, could it?

“I’ve...noticed the same,” he found himself saying, a little shakily. “Since Hannah died. I’ve not slept as well with...an empty bed.”

He held his breath. His heart pounded in his ears.

“Damn,” Harry said. “I was hoping you’d tell me it got better, once there was some distance.” He sighed and Neville let out his breath slowly, a sharp pang of disappointment stabbing his belly.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “Just as a warning. I don’t mean to wake you if I’m not sleeping well. Just...prod me, or something, if I’m tossing about.”

“I’ll do that,” Neville promised. He smiled sadly to himself as he settled back into his pillow to watch the fan again. “Good night, Harry.”

“Night, Neville.”

 _One...two...three..._

Neville lost count at three hundred and sixty seven.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the conference passed uneventfully, both from a scholarly and romantic perspective. He had heard of a new plant he’d have to search for, but it was out of curiosity, not academic value (it did, however, amuse him so much he may just have to cultivate it and inflict it upon an uppity N.E.W.T. class), and he had managed to somehow completely lose track of where Harry was during the day, though he was always in his bed asleep when Neville awoke early each morning. A small part of him dreaded that he was spending time with Reese, who was telling him all about how besotted Neville was with Harry. A part of him hoped for it, because then the hard part would be over and he wouldn’t have to screw up the courage to actually tell Harry about the torch he’d carried for more than half his life.

When Neville came back to the room after the last day, more than ready to shed his jacket and tie before he was steamed alive like a dumpling, he found Harry lounging on his bed, reading a book.

“Ready to get out of this place?” Neville asked, getting a finger between his tie and his neck and pulling.

“You have no idea,” Harry responded. He reached down, pulled up Neville’s satchel, and threw it at him. “I’ve already packed for both of us. Your extension charm’s much better than mine, by the way,” he added. “I’m jealous. You must have an entire library in there.”

“I don’t really like being far from a good reference book,” Neville admitted. “They can be lifesavers, you know.”

“How so?” Harry asked, stretching as he got off the bed and stood.

“Just last year, I woke up to find a large red spider not three inches from my hand. I reached into my satchel...”

“And identified it in time to save your life?” Harry asked a bit sarcastically.

“No, banged the hell out of it with the heaviest codex I could find.” Neville grinned a bit impishly. “I already knew it was a Firefiend, but they’re immune to magic, and I’m not quite limber enough to stomp on something next to my hand when I’m lying down.” He stuffed his tie into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of clothes. “Let me just change into different clothes and we’ll get going.”

“So where are we off to?” Harry asked after Neville had changed out of his suit, returned the room keys to the front desk, and confirmed that the rooms had been properly charged to the “World Botanical Society Conference,” who would take care of changing his galleons to Muggle money.

“Arizona,” Neville said with relish, “The Sonora Desert. Bottom middle-ish of the country.”

Harry gave him a long-suffering look. “What, this place isn’t hot enough for you?” He gestured around the courtyard of the hotel, as though the heat and humidity were solid enough to be seen.

“It’s plenty hot enough for me,” Neville replied, looking about to be sure no Muggles were watching as he drew his wand. “But it’s not nearly hot nor dry enough for my current pet project.” He looked pointedly at Harry, and offered him his arm. “Care to join me?” he asked whimsically, in an exaggerated posh accent.

“Only because you’re pretty,” Harry responded in the same tone, taking Neville’s arm.

The little voice giggled and Neville shunted it to the side as he pictured, in as much detail as possible, the nice protected rock formation somewhere in the desert of Arizona. He’d never bothered to map it. They spun tightly on the spot, and...

It was like stepping from a sauna into a furnace.

It had been unseasonably warm in Salem; Neville remembered seeing a sign in the hotel professing it to be 94 degrees Fahrenheit. The constant moisture in the air made the heat feel inescapable. Here, however, the dry air sucked the moisture away from his skin immediately, leaving it feeling tight and very, very warm.

Harry nearly wilted as he got his feet under him and opened his mouth as though to make some remark, but then took a moment to look around.

They were in a mountainous region, midway up a high peak, and the land sloped away from them in a combination of sheer rock faces and gentler valleys. Rock formations, stories high, vaulted overhead, striated in red brown and dark gold. Gray-green vegetation carpeted the landscape, broken by some taller shrubs and cacti. The horizon shimmered in the heat, and above, birds of prey circled lazily. The sky was that startlingly vivid blue that only happens when even a hint of a wisp of cloud has been banished by heat, and the rocky landscape seemed to go on forever, in gently rolling hills and the occasional additional rock formation jutting out in sharp relief against the sky.

“Okay,” Harry admitted. “It’s hot as Hades, but you could have taken me to worse places.” He leaned back against the rock wall behind him, crossing his arms. “Actually, it’s beautiful—once you’re in the shade.”

“It’s one of my favorite places on Earth,” Neville said with immense satisfaction, walking over to lean on the rock next to Harry. “I don’t get to share it with many people. Hannah couldn’t abide the heat, and my colleagues think I’m nuts for coming here.”

“Well. Thanks for sharing it with me,” Harry said, flashing a grin at Neville that made him weak in the knees and glad for the rock behind him. He briefly considered putting his arm across Harry’s shoulders, then discarded the entire notion as the worst idea he’d had that day.

They soaked in the landscape for a short while, then Neville snapped out of his reverie and opened his satchel.

“I want to get the tent up before it starts getting dark. It gets cold very fast this high up, and I’d like to find a certain plant and take some cuttings in the evening hours while it’s cooling down. And, too, it’s cooler inside the tent.”

“A volcano would likely be cooler than this,” Harry pointed out.

“It’s not,” Neville assured him. “Trust me.”

“And when have you been to a volcano?” Harry asked in a mystified tone. Neville chuckled.

“You don’t think that stuffy middle-aged professor in the suit or the teacher’s robes is the real me, do you?” he asked. He stood up from unrolling the tent on the ground and held his arms out so Harry could get a good look at him—the rugged short-sleeve shirt with ample pockets, cargo shorts, and hiking boots. “This is a much more apt representation of who I am—except I’m usually covered in dust and haven’t bathed in a week.”

“I don’t think I’d have been able to guess that,” Harry said slowly. “Though I probably should have.” Neville laughed and continued to set assorted tent pieces on the ground in a precise pattern.

“I’ve done a great deal of traveling to places you’ve never even heard of,” he said proudly as he laid down a tent pole. “Much of it in the name of collecting samples and pictures of plants for the Herbological Order of Comprehensive Catalogers, of which I am an esteemed field member. But mostly, I just love to travel—and explore.” He beamed up at Harry. “This is where I come on holidays, though. Even some weekends. I never get tired of it.” Tent poles and stakes arranged, he stood back, poised his wand, and flicked. The stakes buried themselves with vigor into the rocky soil as the tent poles snaked their way into the pockets of the tent. In less time than it took to assemble the separate pieces, a stout-looking canvas tent was erected on the level bit of land next to the rock formation.

Harry’s jaw fell. “Tidy work,” he complimented.

“Thank you,” Neville said, filled with a happy glow that wasn’t just from Harry complimenting him.

He was in his favorite place, with the man who was quickly becoming his favorite person even discounting his rapidly intensifying infatuation. The air smelled like dust and sagebrush and sunshine, and the sky was clear and bright.

Life was good.


	4. Mala Mujer

“It’s hot, I’m thirsty, and there’re bugs everywhere,” Harry said disgustedly. “And I don’t think that charm you gave me is doing anything to repel them.”

“Funny, I’m just fine,” Neville said, not looking up. One wrong move and he’d end up with another useless cutting. “And it’s about twenty degrees cooler over here in the shade. Don’t whine about the heat if you’re just going to stand in the sun like a prat.”

“I’m not whining,” Harry insisted. He pushed through some brush and went to lean against one of the red rocks. Neville capped his glass vial with intense satisfaction. That made three good cuttings in the past day, and so far he hadn’t been eaten alive. That could very well be a record.

“Are we done yet?” Harry asked after a moment. “I think I just got bitten on every square inch of my skin at once, and I’d like to go inside to put something on it.”

“We haven’t even been out here half an hour,” Neville said. “You can go back if you want, I just want to finish my sketch of this.”

“Augh,” Harry said, the petulant tone dropping from his voice like a lead weight. “Really, Neville, I think I just got bit by something not good.”

“Rub some dirt on it,” Neville suggested waspishly, not looking up from his quill and parchment. Even besotted as he was, half an hour of Harry’s trademark complaining was enough to make him want to throw his reluctant companion into the nearest patch of prickly pear.

“Neville! I’m being dead ser—” Harry cut off his sentence with a string of curse words so fierce Neville couldn’t help but look up...and gape.

Harry had lifted up his pant leg to reveal an angry red rash, already glistening with blisters. This was easy to see even though Harry was dancing on the spot, tears standing in his eyes and curses continuing to issue from his mouth.

“Harry,” Neville said firmly, moving to put his hands on Harry’s shoulders but thinking better of it—not due to shyness this time, but regular common sense. “When you were following me up here, did you brush against a plant that looked like this?” He gestured at the plant he had been sketching, a bush about waist-high with white flowers and white spotted leaves. It looked rather pretty until you noticed the each white spot was really the base of a very thin, clear spine and the stems were thick with smaller versions of the same spines.

Harry glanced at the bush and nodded, then gasped as a rash bloomed on his arms and face almost before their eyes. He exclaimed something very difficult to spell and began slapping ineffectively at them.

“Stop that, and stop touching your face if you don’t want to go blind,” Neville said in his best teacher voice. Harry froze, tears of pain leaking from his eyes. He started swaying from foot to foot, grinding his teeth together.

Neville sighed heavily and reached for his wand. “Be still, you dolt,” he said wearily, pointing his wand at Harry. “ _Histimus evanesco_.”

Harry immediately stopped his painful little jig, but the rash remained an angry red on his leg, arms, and face. Neville gave him a once-over as the other man stood panting, gave a satisfied little nod, and turned back to his sketch.

“What,” Harry demanded, “In the bloody ten hells was THAT?”

“It’s a wonderful little mundane plant called Mala Mujer,” Neville said calmly, licking the point of his quill to wet the ink again. “It has tiny spines that will easily penetrate cloth, even leather, and deliver toxin to the flesh that you can spread around by touching it, because the small spines splinter into tinier spines too small to see and continue to penetrate the skin, hang around on clothing... Nasty little plant, hard to grow anywhere but mountainous desert regions, but a wonderful curative for arthritis when dried and despined.”

“It tried to kill me!” Harry said in slight amazement, and not a little anger.

“Of course it didn’t. Mundane plants can’t act of their own volition. It just preemptively tried to stop you eating it. Do you feel like taking a bite now?”

“Hell no.”

“Then it’s done its job,” Neville said, pushing his spectacles up and smiling at Harry. “Magic isn’t as concentrated here in the Americas, so mundane plants had to come up with a different defense mechanism. This one uses a crystallized toxin in its spines that normally remains in the skin, injecting massive amounts of a substance called histamine—causing itching and pain and, with enough of it, death.” He rather enjoyed the goggled look Harry was giving him, one pant leg rolled up, hands limply at his sides. One of his eyes had nearly swollen shut behind his slightly askew glasses and his hair was more disheveled than normal. He was fully aware that he had adopted the tone he used to lecture his students, but he continued. “I Vanished most of the spines and the toxin, so it shouldn’t hurt anymore, and the swelling will go down as your body flushes itself over the next quarter hour or so, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything with me to get rid of the rash and blisters. I’ve got dittany back at the tent, though.”

“And that’s a _mundane_ plant?” Harry asked, staring at the offending bush with something close to horror.

“Oh yes. A lot of plants on this continent behave similarly—all around the country, in all climates. You should see what some of the magical ones get up to.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said after a beat. “America is trying to kill me.”

“I would advise you to avoid tramping through any plant we see here,” Neville offered in agreement. “Because yes—the flora of America is not kindly.”

* * *

“Merlin’s pants,” Neville said as Harry removed his shirt a quarter hour later in the tent, “What did you do, roll in it? No, don’t toss it on the floor—” Neville Banished the shirt and already-discarded pants out the door to the clearing outside the tent.

“I just walked through it,” Harry insisted, gritting his teeth. “Would you mind getting my back? I can’t quite reach...”

“I never got myself this bad, that I had to Vanish the spines four times,” Neville said with a tone of awe as he pointed his wand at Harry’s back. “ _Histimus evanesco_. Better?”

“Some,” Harry said. He rolled his shoulders and winced. “Doesn’t help with the blisters, though.”

“I’ll get the dittany,” Neville said. “You sit there and don’t move—if you’re still shedding spines I don’t want to find them with my bare feet tomorrow morning.”

Neville looked back over his shoulder and chuckled to himself as he took down his medicine kit. Harry moped on a tall three-legged stool, dressed only in boxer shorts, looking as though he’d just been doused in strong acid from head to toe. He had to admit: even Harry didn’t look that appealing with weeping sores spotted over his entire body like disgusting freckles. His own skin was almost itching in sympathy; he’d had his own run-ins with Mala Mujer before.

“All right, I don’t have a lot of this—it’s hard to come by—so we’re only going to put it on the worst of the blisters, and we’ll use poultices of pickled murtlap for the rest,” Neville said, as he pulled two bottles from the medicine kit.

Harry twisted around on the stool, looked pointedly at himself, and gestured at the expanse of rashes covering his torso and legs. “Poultices,” he said flatly. Neville got his point. They’d have to be poultices the size of blankets to do any good.

“Well,” Neville said, trying his hardest not to smile. “Here. Let’s draw you a bath, and we’ll make a sort of Harry-Murtlap-Noodle-and-Dittany-Soup. And I’ve even got some Muggle medicine that works wonders, but it’ll make you sleepy, which may actually be a blessing in disguise...”

“You came prepared, didn’t you?” Harry asked as he limped after Neville to the bathroom.

“Don’t touch anything! And yes, after my first excursion here about fifteen years ago, I made sure I had as much as I possibly could to counteract the plants around here. I didn’t really have that much respect for mundane plants...figured they didn’t have a patch on the magical plants I’d been used to...” Neville laughed softly to himself and shook his head as he plugged the tub and started the tap. Cold water; he’d be kind. “After a bad tangle with our lady Mala Mujer, I mastered _histimus evanesco_ very, very quickly, and then spent several hours in a tub soaking out the remaining spines—much like you’re going to be doing.” Using a dropper, he added a half dozen drops of the precious dittany oil to the water, then a handful of the shredded pickled murtlap. He glanced over his shoulder. “Nuh uh!” he said, and Harry snatched back his hand from the towel he had been about to grab. “You can touch things in my tent after we’re sure you haven’t any more spines on you. Now sit.” He pointed at the bath and withdrew from the bathroom to give Harry some privacy.

He Vanished the clothes on the doorstep Harry had been wearing—they’d never be able to get all the poisonous spines out, even with magic—and did his best to rid the tent of the spines that were inevitably floating through the air and settling everywhere else inside the tent.

“You dolt,” he chuckled as he sat down on the lumpy couch with his sketchbook.

“I heard that,” Harry yelled from the bathroom.

* * *

Harry emerged some two hours later from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Neville slowly looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow as Harry stood in front of him, looking for all the world like someone had carved him from granite—if granite was slightly pinkish and rash-mottled in areas.

“You stole my clothes,” Harry accused, dripping.

“Did not. I Vanished them,” Neville corrected.

“What? Why would you—”

“They were full of spines and even with a spell, it’s nearly impossible to get them all out. I doubt you really want a relapse of this afternoon?” Neville tried to keep his eyes from wandering over Harry’s wet torso but it was very difficult, like a staring contest in reverse.

“I guess not. Where’d you put my bag?” Harry turned away and Neville breathed a silent sigh of relief and regret—feeling the two at the time was such an odd dissonance that his chest wasn’t sure whether it should flutter or relax and did a bit of both.

“On your bed.” Neville returned to his book, stubbornly keeping his nose in it while Harry changed in nearly full view, having left the bedroom door ajar.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Harry asked, his voice muffled as he pulled a tee shirt over his head.

“Well, I was hoping we could take a few days here...hike about a bit, maybe see a lucky summer rainstorm and the resulting bloom...we missed the spring bloom, of course, by about a month and a half, but the sporadic summer ones are quite impressive.” Neville turned a page in his book. “There’s a magical plant that I’d like to find here before we take off for the Everglades, and there’s another magical plant in the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest that’s proven elusive the last few times I’ve tried to find it. A week, if that? And then I promise we can start our leisure time. There’s an island I know of—near the Hawaii chain—if you really want we can even go poke the volcano.”

“Sure. But you get to bother the next man-eating plant.”

Neville chuckled. “That’s actually the idea.”

Harry blanched. “You’re kidding, right? I was kidding. Are you kidding?”

Neville winked and stood up. “Good night, Harry.”


	5. Evening Talk

Harry didn’t actually own any hiking boots, and Neville judged that his sneakers weren’t up to the task of the harder exploring he had in mind. Reluctantly, he concluded they’d have to stay on the Muggle trails. This was certainly not the most ideal situation in which to discover a magical plant, but he also knew that this plant had been spotted—and misclassified—several times by Muggles, so there was still a chance.

Besides, Neville reflected as he and Harry strode along the hiking paths, chatting about inconsequential things and continuing to renew and enhance their friendship, this was pleasant. Usually if he had company it was a colleague, or once a pair of promising students, and he had not been able to drop the visage of the Hogwarts professor.

With Harry, though, there was no need to pretend. Harry knew what he was, had grown up through all the awkward stages of boyhood and adolescence with him, and they were rather uniquely suited to understanding one another after their unusual life-changing (not to mention life-threatening) experiences at school. They made jokes at the expense of each other, Harry finally being able to find humor in the face of his blunder the day before, and giving every scrap of vegetation near the trail, even dead twigs, considerable berth. Neville pointed out mundane plants that he knew as they came across them, and Harry spoke easily of stories of his children and summer camping trips they had taken.

They rounded a boulder that stood some three stories high and Neville stopped in his tracks. “There it is,” he breathed, throwing out an arm so Harry would not go closer.

“What is it?” Harry asked, peering around Neville.

“It’s called the Jumping Cholla. Don’t get too close to it—walk behind me—” He started forward slowly, not taking his eyes off the ropey cactus that was wrapped around a dead tree.

“What does it do? Does it strangle you? More venom?”

“No,” Neville said, taking another careful step. “Just move slowly, keep your voice down, let it make up its mind we’re not a threat...” Harry followed, and he placed his foot just slightly wrong. A stone beneath his foot slipped and Harry lost his balance momentarily, grabbing at Neville’s daypack to keep himself on his feet.

Apparently, the sudden motion was enough to antagonize the Jumping Cholla, which immediately began pelting Harry and Neville both with potato-sized chunks of itself, each bristling with needle-like thorns an inch long.

Neville whipped out his wand and managed a shield charm over himself and half of Harry, and the cactus lobes bounced off harmlessly. Several well-aimed lobes, however, managed direct hits to Harry’s right arm, leg, and shoulder, and Harry howled.

“Go! Go back!” Neville said, pushing him back as the Jumping Cholla reacted to the loud sound and began throwing more lobes with an angry chittering. Harry didn’t seem to need encouragement as he launched himself back around the boulder.

“It does that,” Neville said as they leaned against the boulder. He gestured at the spiny lobes that had embedded themselves in Harry’s clothing and flesh. “Throws bits of itself when it feels threatened. It serves as a weapon, and it also serves as reproduction—those spines will attach a cholla lobe to an unwary animal—or human—like a burr, and that way it can travel and then grow in a new place once the lobe is discarded. Muggles try to convince themselves that they must have gotten too close, and that’s how they ended up with lobes all over them.” He reached into his daypack and brought out a thick canvas bag. “May I?” he asked Harry.

“Yes! Take them off, yes!” Harry said vehemently. “You don’t even need to ask!”

“I ask because they hurt more coming out than going in,” Neville warned. “They’ve barbs all over, you see.”

“Well I can’t go about with them on, now, can I?” Harry asked, bringing his arm closer to his face to observe it.

“I wouldn’t—”

The warning came too late. The lobe embedded in Harry’s forearm hissed and launched a single inch-long needle at Harry’s face. It bounced off Harry’s glasses. Harry swore and thrust his arm away from his face, looking at Neville with wide eyes.

“ _Get it off me_!”

“Hold still and I will,” Neville said, biting back laughter as he prodded the spiny lobe stuck to the shoulder of Harry’s shirt with his wand. The lobe stopped shivering and went quite still, and Neville carefully unhooked it from the garment and placed it in the canvas bag. He dispatched the other two lobes with similar ease and tied the top of the bag in a knot. “Thanks Harry, now I can grow some myself.”

“Seriously? You’re going to inflict those on students?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“Probably. If you sever a lobe during a waning gibbous moon, the juice you get can be added to almost any potion and make it last months longer than it normally would without drying out. Quite valuable, really, but not an ingredient readily available in Britain...they need desert, you see, and oddly enough the juice itself doesn’t store well. Now, let’s patch you up. I don’t know a great deal of healing spells but I can at least bandage you, stop the bleeding a bit.”

Harry looked down at his forearm and thigh as though surprised to see he was still bleeding. Neville stowed the canvas bag in his daypack and brought out his medical kit, then instructed Harry to sit. He knelt down next to Harry and began unwinding a roll of gauze.

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” he said, pointing his wand at the wound. Water trickled from the wand and Neville gently washed the wounds, then deftly wrapped them in gauze. He glanced at Harry from time to time, suddenly conscious of the fact that Harry was sitting very calmly, almost relaxed, and it struck Neville that it was an ultimate expression of trust. He broke out into a slight sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.

“You’re awfully calm,” Neville remarked as he tied off the gauze around Harry’s thigh.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Harry stood up, wincing a bit as his weight tugged at the wound. “I’ve got you.”

Neville’s heart gave a little leap in his chest as he packed everything back into the day bag. His mind raced with things he could say in response, but they were so conflicting that they were of little help.

“Although, in the past two days, I’ve been brutally injured by two totally different plants, so on second thought, maybe being around you isn’t the safest thing after all,” Harry added, then punched Neville in the shoulder in jest.

“I think you got soft, doing nothing but chasing down hardened criminals,” Neville retorted. “You need some time out in untamed wilderness to toughen you up.”

“I’m tempted to agree, looking at what it’s done for you,” Harry responded. “I will admit I have a whole new respect for your profession.”

They walked slowly back to the tent, lightly teasing one another in a dance that, if you squinted and looked at it sidewise, was very much like gentle flirting, and Neville felt lighter with every step.

* * *

 _You really ought to say something to him_ , the insistent part of his brain told him as he poured drinks in the tent’s kitchen that evening. _What’s the worst that could happen_?

 _The worst that could happen? Oh, he could get disgusted and walk out. Or get angry, and think I asked him to come as a deliberate manipulation. Or he might even feel sorry for me, which would be terrible. No, I really think I’d rather not say anything so soon._

 _So soon? You’ve known him for nearly thirty years._

 _Yes, but—_

 _And you also know he’d be receptive if you made a move._

 _That’s not true, some guy in a bar told me he thought Harry would be receptive, but that’s hardly conclusive—_

 _You’ll never know until you try._

Neville had to agree he had a point. He hated when he argued with himself; he always lost.

Sighing, he took the two tumblers out to the camp chairs set in front of the tent, where Harry was sitting with his leg propped up reading a book.

“One firewhisky, neat, sir,” Neville said as he handed off the tumbler. Harry took it gratefully.

“Thanks. Had I known you kept a traveling liquor cabinet I’d have imposed on you earlier—especially after yesterday.” He took a sip.

“How’s the skin?” Neville asked. Harry made a face.

“Still a bit raw. I don’t think I did it any favors today, between impaling it in three dozen places and the sunburn. D’you mind terribly if I stay in the tent tomorrow?”

“Not at all,” Neville said, hiding a flash of disappointment. “You going to be bored?”

“I’m catching up on my reading,” Harry said, flashing the book cover at Neville. “Tabitha Gooding has come out with three new novels in the past four years that I still haven’t had a chance to read.”

“I didn’t know you read Gooding,” Neville said. He had no idea who Gooding was.

Harry was about to respond, but his words were interrupted by a bright flash of light accompanied by a great peal of thunder that reverberated throughout the stone formation like a giant drumroll. Neville jumped to his feet.

“Well that’s odd,” he remarked. “Usually the thunderstorms don’t start around here until August. Let’s get inside, Harry—it’s not likely to rain, it was too hot today, but we don’t want to be exposed when there’s lightning.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, and they ducked through the tent flap.

Another peal of thunder rolled over the tent, and a few glasses in the cabinet trembled. Neville absently lit the fireplace with a cool white flame for light without heat and strolled to the living room windows.

“Yeah, it’s still far too hot outside for any rain to get to the ground—look,” he gestured. Harry came up behind Neville and looked out the window at the wispy grayness beneath the thunderheads that seemed to fade and vanish before it hit the ground. “It’s all evaporating before it can even fall.”

He doubted Harry would find that interesting, though the towering black thunderheads and the wispy gray evaporating rain was very pretty against the pinks and oranges of the sunset. He had just wanted an excuse to get Harry near. But now that Harry was right next to him at the window, Neville found he had run out of ideas—or rather, he had run out of ideas that he wasn’t too much of a coward to pull off.

“Thunder always reminds me of Ginny,” Harry said sadly. Neville’s heart plummeted down to somewhere around his knees.

“Oh?” was about all he could come up with to say. Harry nodded as he went to sit on the couch.

“It was during a thunderstorm that she demanded that we get married,” he said, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “I’d been putting her off for ages—didn’t want to endanger her, not with three Death Eaters still at large—but she seemed to find that insulting. ‘Harry James Potter,’ she said, ‘if I wanted to be safe and sound I wouldn’t have chosen you. Now stop being a git.’ I proposed to her the next day.” He shook his head. “I was young,” he said defensively, “And in love, and young fools in love do stupid things.” He took a sip of his firewhisky. “I counted it out, you know,” he said suddenly, looking up. Neville raised an eyebrow. “The total hours I’d spent with her alone before I asked her to marry me. Not in corners at school or whatever, but actual time alone with her—taking in a play, or dinner, or just talking, or...well. Not that there was much of it—like I said, I didn’t want her to become a target for Death Eaters—but I was astonished at how very few hours I’d spent alone with her before I married her. It was something like forty-three. And it was spread out over two and a half years.” He shook his head and took another sip. “I must have been mental.”

Neville didn’t know what to say, and so decided the best course of action would be to say nothing.

“Of course we didn’t have problems right away. It wasn’t until after James was born that things started to get...rocky. But we told ourselves it was just the stress of having a newborn, and that all marriages have arguments, and that things would inevitably get better.” Harry sighed. “As you know, they never did.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Neville said, putting an awkward hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry nodded, staring into the fire.

“I just wish we had a better reason,” he said, somewhat fiercely. “People ask why we got divorced and I don’t have a better reason than ‘we didn’t get along.’ I don’t know what to tell them that’s more accurate than that, but when it comes down to it...”

“Everyone changes,” Neville said simply. “And sometimes they don’t change in complementary ways. Ginny grew up—she was, after all, only eighteen when you married her. You’re not the same Harry I knew at school. I hope to all things holy that I’m not the same Neville you knew.”

“You did change,” Harry said. “For the better. I’m a bit surprised you’re the same person who lost his toad on the Hogwarts Express.” Neville smiled a little, and a matching smile bloomed on Harry’s face. “Ginny, though...I think she figured out I’d dote on her, so she found ways to get me to do so. And then she started getting insecure and manipulative and...” Harry reclined back and finished off the firewhisky in his glass. “I don’t think I’ve changed all that much, though. You’re two for three.”

“‘Course you’ve changed,” Neville contradicted. “For one thing, you stand straighter—I guess not having the constant feeling of everpresent doom looming over you helps—and you’re quicker to smile. You were much more serious at school, at least since...I guess it was third year. And...” he paused, rolling the words over in his brain to make sure he said them correctly. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he cautioned, “but you seem more like your own person and less like one third of a trio now. At school, whenever the Fantastic Three was broken up in any way, you seemed...diminished. Now you seem like a complete person, even without Ron and Hermione.”

Harry cocked his head to one side. “I suppose,” he relented. “Although becoming a loner isn’t really the best change in the world. I like being close to other people. I thought I had that with Ginny, and I was wrong. People are too goggled by me at work for me to make close friends, probably because I’m the boss of most of them now more than the fact that I’m Harry Potter.” He shrugged and looked away from the fire, blushing just slightly. Thunder rumbled. “I guess that’s why I’m so glad you asked me along,” he said to his knees. “I missed being close to someone.”

Neville quailed a little bit. If that wasn’t an opening, he was a nutcracker. He opened his mouth to say something, but realized in a panic he seemed to have run out of words. He snapped it shut, took a breath through his nose, and opened it again—

“I’m glad we’re renewing this friendship, Neville,” Harry said, tearing his gaze away from his knees to make eye contact with Neville, which immediately made his mouth go dry. “It’s at exactly the right time. Without you, I probably would have dived headfirst into another relationship, and that is the last thing I need right now.”

Neville rather thought his stomach had turned into a sinkhole at that last statement. He gulped, and to cover his discomfort stood up.

“Another firewhisky?” he asked, proud of the way he kept his voice from trembling.

“Sure, why not?” Harry asked, handing his glass over.

Neville took the glass and turned away, clenching his jaw and swallowing hard to prevent the lump in his throat from becoming tears in his eyes. By the time he had poured and handed Harry his new glass, he appeared as though nothing had happened—but the knot in his middle did not go away until long after he’d fallen asleep, gazing helplessly as Harry slept on in the bed next to his, oblivious that he had said anything out of sorts.


	6. Herbological Interlude

They Apparated in short, easy hops to the rainforest in the Pacific Northwest, where Neville did not find his Vanishing Vinepods but Harry, who did not stay in the tent after all, did discover how to identify poison ivy, if after the fact.

This resulted in a short, brutal argument about the inefficacy of Neville’s histamine-vanishing spell (which he hadn’t had occasion to use on poison ivy before), Neville being a bit more brusque than he would normally be in light of the revelation the night before, and ended in Harry brooding once more on the three-legged bar stool in Neville’s tent. He had his arms crossed and was, without a doubt, sulking. A livid red rash tinged one side of his face and neck, blisters stood out vividly enough that they looked like pox, and hives covered his arms so thickly they looked like sleeves. The shorts he wore exposed more rash and redness from his ankles all the way up to his knees, where his legs disappeared under the clothing, and judging from how Harry had fallen face-first into the poison ivy Neville was willing to bet the rash extended some fair amount up the thighs.

He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Neville drew in a breath. “I-”

“I’m not speaking to you right now,” Harry said loftily, turning his head to look out the window.

Neville decided it would be prudent to let it be.

* * *

Harry forgave Neville almost as soon as Neville wordlessly handed him a flask of lurid pink ointment that smelled strongly of pepper and rubbing alcohol, but made the rashes disappear almost as soon as the pungent fumes hit them. He even allowed Neville to rub the ointment onto his back, which Neville did with mixed feelings—was there any point in encouraging his infatuation now?—before Harry started his usual self-aggrandizing apology monologue.

“Harry,” Neville said tiredly, “Leave it. Yes, I told you what poison ivy looks like. No, that poison ivy didn’t look like what I thought it would. No, my spell wasn’t very effective against it because it was a different type of poison. Yes, you have every right to be mad at me. Yes, you were being a bit of a prat walking through a plant you couldn’t identify, particularly in light of what happened not two days ago. No, I didn’t strictly have to go get you that ointment, but it wasn’t far and it wasn’t expensive, so really it’s my pleasure. No, you do not have to pay me back. Have we gone over all the points? Yes? Then we’re done. I’m sorry I snapped at you, you’re sorry you got a bit shirty with me, and that’s the end of it. D’you want to rest before we head to the Everglades? It’s a fifteen-hop Apparation and it takes a lot out of you.”

Harry’s eyes had been getting slightly wider with every sentence until he looked very much like a frog, with his mouth open like that.

“Blimey,” he said finally, “What’s gotten into you?”

That brought Neville up short. “Huh?”

“You’ve been rather cool with me all morning, and now you’re acting like we’re strangers,” Harry replied. Neville set his jaw and looked away.

“I don’t take to confrontations well,” he lied, “And last night—” He brought himself to a halt immediately, cursing his runaway mouth as his ears began to burn.

“What about last night?” Harry asked, mystified.

Neville’s mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse. “Treating this whole thing as an excuse to not fall into bed with the next girl that trips you. I thought you actually wanted to come.”

Harry looked thunderstruck. “Really? That’s what’s been bothering you?” He ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. “Of course I wanted to come, it wasn’t just...I didn’t mean...look, can we just kind of pretend last night didn’t happen? Forget every word I said. Except for the whole glad I’m here with you bit, because I did mean that.” He stood up and put a hand on Neville’s shoulder, looking up slightly as Neville was the taller. “I am glad to be here. I’m glad to be here with you, and that we’re getting to be better friends. Please forget everything else I said, it was...unkind.”

“Everything?” Neville asked. “The bits about Ginny and thunderstorms and no relationships and—”

“Everything,” Harry confirmed. He smiled slyly. “If I didn’t know better I’d almost say you were jealous.”

A slight panic fluttered in Neville’s chest as he forced a laugh along with Harry. “Well, this is the first time I’ve had you to myself since...well, ever,” he said a little lamely. “I’d hate to think it was because you couldn’t find anything better.”

“Oh, please,” Harry said, thumping Neville on the back. “What could be better than having to regrow my skin twice and being impaled to boot? I’m kidding,” he said quickly as Neville’s face fell slightly. “I am. What’s up next? You said the Everglades? Where’s that?”

“Complete other side of the country,” Neville said. “Somewhere around three thousand miles. Like I said, fifteen hops—I can’t Apparate three thousand miles in one go, especially not with a hanger-on. But like I said, if you want, we can wait around here a bit first...let you recover...”

“Actually, assuming I don’t faceplant into any more poisonous crap on the way out the door, I should be fine,” Harry said, flexing his elbow and wincing. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

* * *

It was raining in the Everglades, a slow, dreary, steady sort of rain that made visibility difficult. Neville floundered around for half an hour before finally giving it up as a bad job—he’d have to trip over the roots of the Maneating Mangrove before he would find it, and then he would be in a bit more trouble than he wanted to tackle before noon on a Tuesday. He’d left Harry behind in a safer spot, just in case he had met a mangrove—Neville himself was confident he could handle one, but he didn’t think he could do what was necessary to both protect himself and Harry and keep from irreversibly damaging the mangrove, and he did not need to lose his badge for damaging an endangered plant. Harry had actually been slightly disgruntled at the prospect of being left behind until Neville pointedly asked whether he actually wanted to meet a Maneating Mangrove, at which point Harry decided Neville’s idea was rather a good one after all.

Neville was approaching where he had left Harry, then froze in his tracks as the scene unfolded before him.

Harry, obviously trying to get out of the rain, was now beneath what looked for all the world to be like an apple tree, and was inches away from leaning on the trunk.

“HARRY-NO-GET-OUT-FROM-UNDER-THAT!” he shouted very quickly, brandishing his wand uselessly—he didn’t know any spells against this tree that would do any good—and was pleased to see that by this point, Harry had been conditioned to obey him almost immediately, at least when he used that voice. He leaped away from the trunk and Neville grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back further, well out of the reach of any branches.

“What the...a bloody tree? Seriously?” Harry asked, a little wild-eyed, reaching up to straighten his glasses.

“Yes,” Neville said grimly, “Probably the most dangerous in the world, including magical trees. This one alone has likely killed more people and animals than all the Whomping Willows in Britain. It’s called the Manchineel tree, and it’s a mundane tree, but its sap is extremely toxic and will drip with the rain from the branches, its leaves have an effect similar to that of Mala Mujer, the fruit will burn your insides and then poison you from the inside out, and the smoke from burning its wood will blind you and suffocate you, not to mention you’ll give your lungs a rash just by being around the vapors of the living tree for too long.” He shook his head and stared at it. “I’ve never seen one so far inland—they’re fairly rare, and usually well-marked—I think I’ll mark this one just to be safe.” He slashed with his wand and a large red X appeared vividly on the trunk.

“That tree had better cure spattergroit or increase your IQ by four hundred points,” Harry said in a shaky voice.

“Oh? No, no, it’s completely useless...one nearly killed me a few years back, though, I was trying to take samples of the bark to give to the Potions master and I got sap all over my hands...”

“I’m never going on vacation with you again,” Harry proclaimed in a shaky, joking tone. “Poisonous trees. Toxic bushes. If you wanted to kill me, you could have at least tossed me to a good old Devil’s Snare.”

“I think I’m done cultivating for this trip,” Neville admitted. “You seem to have a knack for finding the worst possible vegetation to cozy up to.”

“You didn’t even warn me about this one,” Harry whined.

“I said I didn’t think they’d come this far inland,” Neville responded. “I can’t imagine why it’s here, it likes sandier soil and beaches...anyway.” He shook his head and stepped further away from the tree. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it when they had Apparated here...another ten feet and they’d have been right under it. His trembling still hadn’t quite subsided; it had been a _very_ bad night when he’d been recovering from his last encounter with that tree’s ilk. “Are you ready for an actual vacation yet?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Harry grinned. “You promised me a volcano.”

Neville chuckled. “That’ll take a Portkey and some tricky Apparating, but I’ll take you there. Come on—we’ll grab a transcontinental Portkey in Key West.”

Harry took Neville’s arm, and Neville allowed himself a little hopeful glow. In light of Harry’s insistence he forget the entire conversation of the night before, maybe he shouldn’t give everything up yet after all.


	7. Momentary Mortality

The volcano proved to be somewhat less thrilling than it had been the last time Neville had visited it, though they still needed a Protego charm to shield them from the heat that rose off the lava flow and the rocks around it in shimmering waves. The lava flow was almost sedate, except for a few small fountains that erupted and caused Harry to jump back in fright and then pretend he hadn’t; Neville was able to collect a decent number of Lucifern cuttings and stow them away in his bag.

“Not that I can grow them properly,” he confided to Harry, “Can you imagine trying to keep a volcano going in the greenhouses? But I can graft them onto a Flamelily stem and bring about a few blooms, and the potions master is always glad to get his hands on them without paying the exorbitant prices that suppliers charge.”

Harry merely nodded, his face and arms slick with sweat and his shirt sticking to him as though he’d just been doused with a hosepipe.

“Anyway. This is the volcano,” Neville said, gesturing. “Not as active as it was a few years back, but—” he stopped short as he noticed Harry weaving, as though having trouble standing correctly. “Harry?” he asked.

Harry blinked in Neville’s direction, his eyes rolled back into his head, his knees folded, and he sank to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. As they were on a slope, he began to slide down it—in the precise direction of the lava flow.

“Sodding hell,” Neville muttered as he quickly drew his wand, “ _Protego! Locomotor corpus!_ ” he exclaimed, levitating Harry’s body above the ground just before he rolled into the hardening edges of the lava flow and shielding him against the searing heat. He slowly brought Harry back to where he was standing and shook his head, somewhat amused. “How on earth did you not die three dozen times in school?” he asked the unconscious Harry. He sighed, shouldered his satchel along with Harry’s and, Harry’s body floating in tow, began the hike back to their campsite a mile away.

* * *

He had to admit he was slightly worried that Harry had not awoken by the time they returned to the tent, and he gently lay Harry out on his bed before setting a hand to his forehead.

“I can’t tell if you’ve a fever or heat exhaustion,” he said to the unconscious Harry, “But either way it’s not good news.” He sighed with a little remorse. “I guess I have been pushing you a bit hard the past few days...no wonder your body’s tired, I’ve been making it do all sorts of things it’s not used to.”

He put a cold compress on Harry’s forehead and busied himself around the tent for a bit until he could hear Harry stirring.

“All right?” he asked, poking his head into the bedroom.

“Hm? What? Oh. Maybe?” Harry said, pulling himself into a sitting position. The cold compress fell off his forehead.

“You blacked out back the the lava flow,” Neville supplied. “Heat exhaustion is my guess, though your body probably isn’t used to all this exertion no matter what kind of training you do at home.”

“I don’t do much,” Harry protested, trying to swing his legs over to stand. Neville put out a hand to stop him.

“Not yet, I want you drinking some water first, you’re probably dangerously dehydrated. And what do you mean, you don’t do much training? You don’t end up with a body like that without some serious work...” he trailed off as he listened to what he was saying and his neck began to burn.

“And I suppose you do a fair amount of training as well, then?” Harry asked a bit shrewdly, though the effect was slightly lost by the way his eyes didn’t seem to be very focused and looked rather glassy.

“Me? No,” Neville said in surprise. “None at all. But, look, I haven’t the...you...” He gave up as Harry began to laugh weakly and shoved the glass of water at him.

“I’m skin and bones,” Harry said, taking sips of water between phrases. “I put on even a little muscle and it looks like...well. You, though, you’re solid. You’ve got muscles that look like they’re used, and on a regular basis, not there to be pretty. Like the build of a...I don’t know. A farmer or a warrior or...” Harry’s cheeks turned slightly redder than they already were and he busied himself with his glass of water as though it was the most important thing in the world. His eyes didn’t seem to be able to blink in sync with each other.

“A warrior?” Neville asked, slightly astonished. He couldn’t help but look down at himself. Sure, his excursions and parts of his job demanded a certain level of physical aptitude from him, and he’d outgrown the awkward rotundness he’d had in school, but he’d never...

“I told you you’ve changed since school,” Harry said. “Did you think I only meant your personality?”

“I—well—that is...” Neville sputtered. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t think you the type to notice those sorts of things,” he said genteelly, daring the flush at the back of his neck to add color to his cheeks too.

Now it was Harry’s turn to look bashfully away. “You’d be surprised at what I notice,” he said into his glass.

The silence was palpable. Neville’s heart raced and it felt as though a thousand voices inside his skull were screaming at him to make some sort of move. Grab him by the shoulders, kiss him soundly, do something!

Just then Harry muttered, “Need more water,” and stood up with a decent amount of haste. Neville popped up to his feet too, but the embrace he had suddenly decided to grasp for ended up being his catching Harry as the empty glass slipped from his fingers and he went limp into another bout of unconsciousness.

Neville grunted under the awkward weight and returned Harry to the bed. As he pressed the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead, he frowned. Surely if Harry was this warm, he should be sweating, but he was dry as a bone.

Biting back bitter disappointment, he replaced the cold compress and left the room to consult with St. Mungo’s over the Floo network. This might very well be beyond him.

* * *

“Of course he’s weak and fainting,” the Healer snapped. “He’s exhausted and dehydrated and he’s probably still healing the lower layers of his skin! Honestly, you men, so thick-headed you’ll keep going till you fall over...”

“Er, yes, that’s us,” Neville said. “What should I do? There’s no moving him right now, and we’re across the ocean from St. Mungo’s and I don’t know where the closest hospital is in America...d’you reckon I should take him to a Muggle hospital?”

“Goodness no!” the healer said, appearing taken aback. “A Muggle hospital wouldn’t know what to do with him! Any person capable of magic can do things even unconscious that would absolutely perplex Muggle ‘doctors’ and cause an uproar...no, he’s not in any life-threatening danger, nothing a few potions can’t fix, that and a good deal of rest. I’ll have the Apothecary pass them through the fire, not something we normally do but in your case...yes, our best option. Now,” she said, in her crisp, businesslike manner, “You’ll be getting three potions. The blue you’ll apply to his forehead and bottoms of his feet. That will draw out the excess heat that is the immediate problem—we don’t want to go choking him with a fever-reducing potion if he’s unconscious. If you can, it’d be best to undress him and get him into very light clothes, or just a sheet would be even better.” Neville swallowed and tried to continue looking attentive, and not dwell on that happy prospect. “The clear with the purple vapor you’ll want to get him to take any time he wakes up, that’ll replace what his body has been losing trying to heal itself so rapidly. The last, the runny orange one, that’s one you should give him just in case he starts getting delusional before the fever breaks.”

“Delusional?” Neville asked, taken aback.

“Well, of course. Being that overheated does odd things to the brain, you know. I’m surprised he isn’t raving right now, if he’s as hot as you say he is. Don’t worry, he likely won’t remember anything, so if he does anything embarrassing it’s only you needs to forget it. Right! The Apothecary will deliver the potions through the fire as soon as he’s got them prepared. Please keep the fire open until you’ve got them. Is there anything else?”

“No,” Neville said, slightly distracted. “Thank you, Healer Cross, for taking time for this unusual request.”

“Of course,” the healer responded with a bow-like nod. “Have a pleasant evening playing nursemaid.”

 

* * *

 

 

Neville poked Harry in the shoulder. “Harry?” he asked. “You there?” Harry responded much as a brick would. “Right then,” Neville said, clapping his hands together nervously. “So. Undressing.”

He started by unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, watching him carefully for any signs of wakefulness. Navigating his limp arms through the sleeves was a bit tough, and Neville was surprised to find himself sweating as he finally extracted the shirt from beneath Harry’s back.

All right. Now for the pants.

Neville hesitated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t fantasized at length about removing Harry’s pants; it in fact had been taking up significant real estate in Neville’s mind for the past several days. It was just that in his daydreams, Harry was always awake and willing—and there wasn’t the very real possibility of Harry waking up halfway through the act and severely misunderstanding what was happening. The image of that played so strongly through Neville’s mind that he almost decided to just leave the shorts on and call it good with the shirt off, until he saw how flushed Harry’s skin still was.

The healer had said he should be completely undressed with just a sheet, or light clothing. He really should do what the healer told him. After all, it had been him that had dragged a hot and exhausted Harry to a bloody volcano...

With equal parts trepidation and exhilaration, Neville reached down to undo the button of the shorts. His hands were shaking and he took a moment to laugh at himself. What was he, seventeen and fumbling with the first bra closure he’d ever encountered? Well, true, it was something of the same idea...

The zipper was next, and Neville held his breath, watching Harry carefully for any signs of life as he slowly pulled it down. Not even a flicker of eyelid.

Neville swallowed, admonished himself for being so unprofessional right now—he was Harry’s nursemaid until he got better, he wasn’t supposed to be relishing undressing him!—and pulled down the shorts to...

His shoes! He’d forgotten to remove them. Neville groaned and knelt at the bottom of the bed, picking at the knots of the laces and then yanking them and the socks off Harry’s feet, continuing to check every few seconds to make sure Harry wasn’t waking. He, of course, didn’t.

Neville slid the shorts over Harry’s feet and lobbed them into a pile with the shirt and socks.

Bloody hell, the boxer shorts.

Neville tried to talk himself down. It wasn’t as though he’d be seeing anything he hadn’t seen before; casual nudity was more or less a given in a dormitory of five boys who shared a single bathroom and showers. Really, he should be jaded by now, not to mention he was twenty years older and wiser than his schoolboy self and it really wasn’t something he should be getting so excited over—emotionally or physically, though there was a good deal of both going on by now—and the longer he drew it out the more he started feeling like he was sixteen again and just realizing how much he fancied Harry’s body and also realizing he could never, ever let it show—

Neville simultaneously lost his nerve and gained it. Quick as a flash he yanked the boxer shorts off, tossed them to the side, threw a sheet over Harry’s naked form and left the room to lean against the closed door, panting.

After catching his breath and applying the blue clay-like potion to Harry’s forehead and feet, he marched himself into the bathroom for a very cold shower.

* * *

Harry still had not awoken by the time Neville was finished with his shower, though he looked considerably less flushed about the cheeks, which Neville suspected was a good sign.

He settled into his own bed with a book, the three potions stacked on the dresser between the two beds; he didn’t want Harry to wake up alone, naked, and covered in goo without someone able to explain straight away what had happened. He couldn’t concentrate on the book, however; he was entirely too intent on listening to Harry breathe, slowly and deeply, and he finally gave up all pretenses, propped himself up on one elbow, and set himself to watch Harry.

He still wasn’t sweating, which the healer said was a bad sign; it meant the fever hadn’t broken yet. His cheeks, though not a uniform red like before, were still blotchy and looked almost like he had another bad rash. Guilt spiked up inside Neville’s chest; it was his fault Harry was in a bad way. If he hadn’t been so desperate to show off...

He replaced the clay-like blue potion on Harry’s forehead and feet once every half hour, as the Apothecary had prescribed...draped Harry’s chest with a damp tea towel as his Gran had once done during his high fevers...as the hours droned on and Harry did not stir, Neville’s confidence that everything would soon be right as rain began to waver. The healer had said it wasn’t life-threatening, just a bit of heat exhaustion, she had assured, it could be hours before Harry awoke again, and there was still plenty of blue potion left, after all, so even the Apothecary must have expected it to take a good while for Harry to wake up...

He must have nodded off, because it wasn’t until he woke with a start from an incomprehensible dream about Cornish Pixies lobbing bits of Mala Mujer at him that he noticed Harry’s skin had a definite sheen to it, and Harry was shifting slightly and struggling as though trying to say something.

“Harry!” Neville said, launching himself to kneel by Harry’s bedside and taking his hand. “Harry, it’s all right, everything’s okay...” One of Harry’s eyes opened blearily and Neville’s heart soared.

“What...” Harry mumbled thickly.

“You’ve got to drink this, it’ll help you get well...” Neville brought the flask of the violet-vapored potion to Harry’s lips, but Harry turned away.

“No...don’t want to drink...”

“You’ve got to,” Neville said, pushing as much stern teacher voice into his inflection as he could.

“No...no...verita...no, can’t...”

 _He’s in a nightmare_ , Neville realized. _He thinks it’s Veritaserum, and I’m trying to get something from him...good lord, he must be going through Auror anti-torture training in his head right now...or possibly even something worse, he’s never told me anything of what happened to him before all the Death Eaters were caught..._

So which potion now? The orange was supposed to dispel any delusions, but the Apothecary had been most insistent on feeding him the vapored one as soon as possible, in order to get him hydrated and healing...

“I WON’T TELL YOU!” Harry bellowed hoarsely, sitting bolt upright in his bed, the sheet crumpling into his lap. His eyes were wide and cast about the room like a trapped animal’s, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily.

Well, that clinched it. If he overexerted himself he might cause his body more harm. Neville grimly unstoppered the orange potion in one hand, forced Harry back down onto the bed with his other, held him down with an elbow with all his weight behind it and took hold of Harry’s jaw firmly.

“You’ve got to take this,” Neville said, pointedly ignoring Harry’s weak hands as they ineffectively grabbed at his wrists.

“Won’t!” Harry snarled.

“Oh, yes you will,” Neville said sadly, abandoning all pretense of authority now. If he concentrated, it was no different than infusing an Oddbloom with a potion, though an Oddbloom did not look at him with those hateful, accusing eyes as he snapped Harry’s jaw shut and held his nose to make him swallow.

The effect was immediate; Harry’s eyelids fluttered and shut like window shades and he fell limply against the pillow. His body gave one great shudder, then became peaceful once more, pulse returning to its slow beat and chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Neville knew he should arrange him in a more comfortable position, reapply the blue potion, and let him be.

Neville didn’t. Instead, he clutched Harry to him, breathing raggedly, tears stinging his eyes, at the memory of that hateful expression Harry at directed at him—and at his own guilt for bringing him to this.

* * *

It was quite dark outside, the lamps throwing odd shadows about the room, when Harry stirred again, causing Neville’s breath to catch.

“Mmmmph,” Harry said, struggling up to one elbow. “Where...right. Neville?”

“Right here Harry,” Neville said gently, kneeling down once more by the bed. “Are you all right?”

“You tell me,” Harry said, squinting and licking his lips. “I’ve a massive headache and my mouth feels like a desert...and I appear to be in a state of advanced undress.”

“You’ve been out most of the day with heat exhaustion,” Neville explained, handing Harry the flask with the purple vapors. “Drink up, that should make things a little better. The healer at St. Mungo’s told me to get you out of your clothes and keep you quiet until your temperature came back down.”

“St. Mungo’s?” Harry asked, inspecting the flask before taking a sip, followed by a more hearty gulp. “Are we back in London, then?”

“No, I made an emergency call with Floo Powder after you passed out the second time,” Neville said. “We’re still near the volcano.”

Harry shook his head slowly, as though wanting to be sure it would stay on if he did so. “Don’t remember much more than that I was in a very hot place,” he admitted. “And feeling very out of sorts. We went to the volcano?”

Neville’s jaw dropped slightly. “Harry, we had whole conversations...” Including one after which Neville had been fairly sure things were finally going to be resolved! “...you don’t remember a thing of it?”

Harry shook his head again. “I’m afraid not, mate. Last thing I remember clearly is that last Apparition we took, from that island with the monkeys, and then it being really hot.” He shrugged, then eyed the flask. “No chance of more of that, is there?”

“No,” Neville said, fighting down no small amount of dismay, “They only sent the one flask, but I can get you some water if you’re thirsty. I don’t want you up and about for several days, and neither does the healer, so no point arguing,” Neville added sharply as Harry opened his mouth. “It may be my fault you’re ill but I’d never have pushed so hard if you hadn’t insisted you were fine, so you can just shut it and lay back and get well.”

Harry kept his mouth shut until Neville returned with a carafe of water and a tumbler, which he clunked down on the bedside dresser.

“So, heat exhaustion?” Harry asked as Neville poured him a glass.

“Well,” Neville said, handing him the glass of water, “More like regrowing your skin twice in three days, localized shock from several deep puncture wounds, exposure to warm climate you’re not used to, Apparating no fewer than two dozen times in as many hours when you’re not accustomed, and then being subjected to the extreme conditions of a live volcano, but that wouldn’t fit on the diagnosis sheet, so we shortened it to heat exhaustion.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not since you were a teenager, you haven’t,” Neville admonished. He sighed heavily. “Harry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re in this mess. I was trying to show off how...I dunno...how impressive I was and I pushed it too far.”

Harry stared blankly. “You were trying to impress me?”

Neville nodded glumly.

“Why on earth would you think that necessary?”

Neville raised an eyebrow. Harry poured himself another glass of water, apparently to have something to slosh about as he gesticulated with it.

“We were both at school together. I already know what you’re capable of. You’ve been through a great deal in the intervening years. We’re friends, Neville,” he said, jabbing a finger and a slop of water at him, “And you’ve got no reason to impress me.” He took a long draft.

“And then, I suppose, there’s the part where impressing you has tended to almost kill you,” Neville added.

“There is that,” Harry agreed reluctantly. He laughed a bit ruefully. “Don’t get me wrong, because I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve already been nearly killed some dozen times, watched my family die, and been through a painful divorce, this would have been the worst week of my life.”

Neville attempted a small smile. “Thank you? I’m sorry?” They both laughed a bit weakly. “I’ll make it up to you...or we can go straight home, if you’d prefer, once you’re up to travel again.”

Harry finished off his third glass of water with a mighty gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’s this,” he said, pouring himself another. “Let’s spend a week where you’re not trying to impress me. Take me back to that desert place of yours and we’ll just relax, like an actual holiday. I promise I won’t cuddle up to any mad plants this time.”

Neville’s chest flooded with relief. “You sure you don’t want a beach or something? I know a few good ones.”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “I _know_ what the mad plants look like in the desert, now. The last thing I need is to be eaten alive by some man-eating kelp you didn’t know you needed to warn me about.”

“That’s true,” Neville said thoughtfully. Harry’s jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding. There isn’t actually a man-eating kelp, is there?”

Neville grinned a bit ruefully, and Harry shook his head and laughed.


	8. Dark Before Dawn

Three days of enforced bedrest was about as much as Neville could coerce Harry into tolerating, and on the fourth day Harry threatened to hex him if he didn’t allow him to get up and walk around. Neville relented, but only because he knew how good Harry’s hexes were.

Harry wobbled around the tent for a little while, looking as though he’d been hit by a weak Jelly-Legs Jinx, then finally sank onto the couch next to Neville with a soda water.

“What are you up to?” he asked, taking a sip.

“Writing about the Jumping Cholla before I forget too much,” Neville said absently, dipping his quill into his inkpot, “and then I was going to make lunch. Bacon sandwiches sound all right?”

“Heavenly, but at some point you’re going to have to let me make some meals.”

“Nonsense, I’m the host, I provide the food,” Neville said firmly. “If you have me round to your place I’ll let you feed me then.”

“Fine then,” Harry said. “Come round some Saturday and I’ll do a whole spread.”

The conversation dwindled. Neville crossed a T and stifled a yawn. “Blimey, I’m sleepy,” he said to nobody.

“Oh,” Harry said, looking abashed. “Is...am I keeping you up nights? With my...” he didn’t finish. Neville looked up from his travel journal and tried a reassuring smile.

“Not at all. Most nights I don’t even notice, just when you start shouting...no, I’m not sleeping well due to...other things,” He said evasively, not able to come up with a good lie in a timely manner.

Really, he hadn’t been sleeping well because he was remembering the conversation Harry seemed to have forgotten, during which Neville had received rather conclusive proof that should he make some sort of move, Harry would be happily receptive. Rather than unmitigated joy, however, the revelation caused some distinct uneasiness. Was it truly what Harry felt, or had that been a symptom of the full-bore delirium that had come later? Was it worth gambling a friendship on, a friendship that Neville was coming to truly treasure and Harry seemed to need?

Luckily, Harry didn’t seem too keen on questioning Neville’s sleep habits. He stretched languidly and Neville couldn’t help sneaking a quick glance at Harry’s abdomen as his shirt rode up. If Neville asked his gonads about his moral dilemma he was pretty sure he knew what the answer would be.

“Reckon we could leave tomorrow?” Harry asked. Neville shot him a glare, which Harry tried to deflect by holding up his hands. “I’m fine, really, feeling loads better—just a bit weak—if I’m going to be sitting around, why not sit around in a place where you can get out and...make your sketches or whatever, rather than have to babysit me?”

“I hardly think you’re up to another Portkey and Apparition yet, you can barely take a turn around the tent,” Neville said in an oddly protective manner.

“Well, I can’t go run a marathon afterward, but I’m not made of spun glass either,” Harry insisted. “I’ve been in bed four days total, this is the longest bedrest I’ve had in years...”

“Go ahead and keep complaining, I’m not budging on this,” Neville said stubbornly, dipping his quill and starting a new paragraph. “I want you resting one more day at least, and then we’ll talk.”

“Don’t go using your Dad voice on me,” Harry said jokingly. Neville froze as though he’d been Stunned, color draining from his face. The smile started to slowly slide off Harry’s face as he seemed to realize what he had said.

“As I’ve never had occasion to develop a Dad voice,” Neville said in an odd voice, feeling as though he were speaking from very far away, “Nor have I ever had one used on me, I’ll thank you to consider your words a mite more carefully next time.” He rose from his seat next to Harry and made to go into the next room.

“Neville, I’m sorry,” Harry said, sounding horrified. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I didn’t think—fuck, Neville, I’m so sorry.”

Neville paused in the doorway. “I know,” he said, feeling a horrible sick twist winding through his guts, “And I accept your apology. But I think I’d like to be alone for a little while.” He quietly closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed.

It had been twelve years since his father had died, eight since his mother, and four since his wife and newborn daughter. This was not the first time an otherwise normal conversation had acted to completely derail his entire psyche. He wished he knew when random comments would stop filling him with ice water and cause him to lose his grasp on the small bit of control he still had over himself.

Helplessly, he lowered his face into his hands, pushing his palms against his eyelids, willing the uncontrollable tears to stay away this time, but it was no use. Sobs fought like a trapped animal in his chest to be released, but Neville stubbornly refused to let them out.

Dimly he heard the bedroom door quietly open. Neville didn’t move, didn’t think he could at this point without exploding.

“Is there anything I can do?” Harry asked softly as he sat down on the bed next to Neville. Neville shook his head, not taking his hands away from his face.

“She’d have been four,” he said in a wavering voice, “and beautiful. Like her mother.”

“I know,” Harry said softly, reaching out to pat Neville’s shoulder.

“I got to hold her. For just a minute, before she...” a sob bubbled up between the words and he couldn’t hold it back. His shoulders heaved with the force of it. “She was so small,” he managed, “And her eyes...sh-she never opened h-her eyes...”

It was like opening a floodgate; everything he’d been holding back for years burst forth in great, wordless sobs that seemed to rip his chest in two. Barely realizing that the shoulder he was now crying on or that the arms holding him tightly were Harry’s, he finally relented and let the monster he had been holding at bay for so long be expelled from within.

He had no concept of how much time had passed by the time he lifted his head, hiccuping, surprised to find himself on the ground outside the tent with no recollection of how he got there. He looked up to see Harry kneeling beside him, rubbing his back as he packed up the tent into Neville’s satchel with an absent swish of his wand.

“What—” Neville began, but Harry shook his head.

“We’re going back,” was all he said before taking Neville’s arm, pulling him into a standing position, and turning on the spot.

* * *

Neville let out a great gasp as the constricting sensation of Apparation let go suddenly, and blinked at the bright sunlight and heat of the Sonora desert that accosted him. He turned wide-eyed to Harry, who wavered a bit where he stood but stayed upright.

“Not a word,” Harry said when Neville opened his mouth. “You need to be here, in your special place, more than I needed one day of rest.”

“But...nearly three thousand miles...” Neville mumbled.

“Yeah, well...” Harry shrugged. “I’m talented. Give me just a moment to set up the tent, mate.”

Neville watched numbly as Harry assembled the tent almost as quickly as he himself might have, then ushered Neville inside, deposited him on the couch, and went to the kitchen. Neville rubbed his eyes and sat staring blankly into the flames in the fireplace until Harry brought him a tumbler of scotch and settled on the couch next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Neville said, staring into the depths of the amber liquid. “I...don’t often lose control like that.”

“That’s a rubbish thing to apologize for,” Harry said sternly. “I’m not going to accept that apology. As well apologize for being human.” He gripped Neville’s shoulder hard and Neville looked up. “I should have been there for you,” Harry said seriously, making fierce eye contact that Neville almost wanted to shrink away from. “All these years I knew what had happened, but I always figured you could handle it, you were probably just fine, you probably didn’t want anyone else barging in on you. But I knew better, and I should have been there, and for that, I apologize.”

‘You were there,” Neville began. Harry snorted.

“I sent owls! I kept myself tidily away from the situation, so that I wouldn’t have to get my hands dirty. What a lousy friend I was. Neville, even back then, you were probably the best friend I had. You lost your wife and daughter and the best I could do was send you a ruddy owl. You deserved much better than that, and I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me, and I hope I can at least start to make it up to you.” He squeezed Neville’s shoulder. “If you ever—ever—need a shoulder, you know you’ve got one. Any time of the day or night. I’m never too busy. Understand?”

Neville nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Good,” Harry said, looking slightly relieved. “Now, can I make dinner? I’m afraid we’ve skipped lunch.”

“I can make it,” Neville began, but Harry interrupted.

“Like hell you will. You sit and finish your drink—”

“No, Harry,” Neville said a bit more firmly. “I don’t want to sit and wallow. It’s never what I’ve done. I keep myself busy. You, on the other hand, just Apparated three thousand miles over a sodding _ocean_ — _with a passenger—_ when you’re supposed to be on bedrest, and you are going to march straight to your bed and not get up until I tell you dinner is ready.”

Harry’s eyebrows had risen with each statement and a small, amused smile played across his lips. “Yes, sir,” he said when Neville had finished, and he rose from the couch to head in the direction of the bedroom. He paused before opening the door.

“Neville?”

“Yeah?”

“You...would have made a great dad, you know.”

Neville swallowed hard.

“Takes one to know one, I suppose,” he responded. “I’ll call when dinner’s ready.”

* * *

Both exhausted beyond belief, Neville and Harry went to bed early. Neville politely ignored Harry gazing at the photograph of his children in his wallet, preferring instead to lie on his side and contemplate the wall until Harry put out the light. Even with the light out, it took a long time for the velvet black of sleep to take him.

Not long after the midnight hour, Neville’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. It was dark as pitch and silent as only a sleeping desert could be, and it took a moment before he realized what had woken him.

Harry’s eyes were shut tight in the bed next to his, his jaw clenched and his hands in fists. He drew in another gasp like the one that had awoken Neville and mumbled.

“No,” he said, rather plaintively, “No, please...Don’t take them, please, no...”

This didn’t sound like Harry’s other nightmares, and Neville was tempted to just let Harry sleep through it...but this one didn’t sound very pleasant, either. He determined that Harry would probably prefer to be removed from tonight’s dose of mental torture.

He groggily made his way to Harry’s bed and sat on the edge. “Harry,” he said, grasping the other man’s shoulder and shaking it. “Harry, wake up. It’s a bad dream.”

Harry came awake with another gasp, rigid and wide-eyed. Neville was about to pat him on the shoulder and go back to his own bed when Harry threw himself at him, clinging to him.

“They took them,” he said, his body suddenly wracked with sobs, “They took them to the Chamber of Secrets and opened it again, and...”

“Shhh,” Neville said, patting Harry’s back uselessly, utterly at a loss for words. “It was a dream. The Chamber isn’t...”

“I know it was just a dream,” Harry interrupted, his voice shaking. “But...you don’t understand...I can’t go look in on them and be grateful they’re alive. I haven’t even seen them for months. I can’t, because she—she _took_ them. She took my kids. Last day of term came and I didn’t go pick them up at King’s Cross. Their bedrooms are empty and I’m eating all alone and I get home from work and Lil isn’t there and _she took my children away from me.”_

“I know,” Neville said, feeling as though someone had punched him in the gut. “I know. But your kids love you. Nothing is going to change that. You’re their father, Harry. That doesn’t change.” He swallowed hard, determined to not add that he had kids to be worried about—he was ashamed that the thought had even crossed his mind.

“They’re going to go to her with everything now,” Harry continued, getting less coherent. “Girlfriends and boyfriends and problems at school and nightmares and homework questions, they’re going to go to her and I won’t know any of it. I’m not going to know my own kids, Neville, she _took_ them from me.”

Neville swallowed a lump of empathy building in his throat, a lump that had not entirely gone away from his own ordeal just a few hours before. Unfortunately, getting it out of the way did not unstopper a supply of wisdom and comfort. He did not know what to say, and what was worse, now tears were seeping from his eyes again, that same tight feeling of sobs rising in his own chest.

He drew the sobbing Harry, now past incoherence and simply whimpering, more closely to him and, without fully realizing it, rocked him gently. It was the same thing Hannah had done for him when he’d woken to his own nightmares that were beyond telling, beyond comforting, and the same thing Harry had done for him not more than twelve hours ago. They clutched each other tightly, sharing in the pain of a family broken and a future lost.

Slowly, Harry’s whimpering quieted to sniffs, then back to slow breathing. Neville slowly laid him back down onto his pillow and drew the blanket back up over his shoulders.

“Oh, Harry,” he said softly, brushing a lock of unkempt hair away from Harry’s brow before placing an ever-so-light kiss upon it. “This is probably the most terrifying thing you’ve ever had to face. I don’t know what to do for you.”

He sat on the edge of Harry’s bed for a long time before making his way back to his own blankets.

* * *

The next morning, Neville was cracking eggs onto a smoking griddle when Harry tapped him on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Harry said, meeting Neville’s eyes before looking quickly away. “For last night. I’m...all right now.”

“No you’re not,” Neville said quietly. He turned all the way to face Harry. “But you’re insufferably brave, so you’ll pretend you are. You’ll smile so hard through the hurt to convince everyone you aren’t hurting you’ll feel ill. You’ll wave sympathy away, telling everyone you’re fine and you don’t need their pity.” He looked Harry squarely in the eyes until Harry reluctantly met his gaze. “I am not going to put up with that bloody nonsense,” he said firmly. “I’ve been on the other end of it and it leaves you hollow, because you do need someone there. You proved that to me yesterday.” He gathered Harry into a rough hug, which Harry returned after a moment of hesitation. “Don’t you dare go shutting me out, like I shut everyone else out, not now, not after we just figured out how to open up,” Neville said, closing his eyes.

He let go of Harry first, though reluctantly, and stepped back. He was somewhat startled to see tears standing in Harry’s eyes and turned hurriedly back to the skillet. The scent and sound of cooking eggs filled the small tent kitchen.

He could feel Harry’s eyes drilling into the back of his neck. Heat flushed into his face and he tried to pretend it was from the griddle.

“I never...actually knew you cared about me that much,” Harry said, still a few feet behind Neville.

Neville didn’t turn around. His heart began to race and he stared out the window. “I’ve always cared about you, Harry,” he said, his mouth suddenly almost too dry to say the words. “More than I think you realize. I’ve...”

He faltered. Really? This was going to be the big moment for which he’d been steeling himself the past several weeks? Over eggs? After the events of last night and the day before had left them both stripped emotionally raw?

Yes. Yes, it was. His mind was clear, and his resolve hardened. This was the exact right time and place.

He took a deep, steadying breath.

He turned around, anxiety seizing his middle and causing his knees to quake, and looked into Harry’s wide eyes, eyes that said loud and clear that Harry knew what Neville was going to say before he even said it, had even provided the opening he had been waiting for.

He said it anyway.

“I fell in love with you more than twenty years ago, and it never went away.”


	9. Bloom

The eggs crackled loudly in the skillet as Neville and Harry faced each other. Neville’s stomach was fluttering madly and he was having trouble keeping his knees from knocking together from shaking.

Harry blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “Good.”

And he stepped forward, grasped Neville’s face in his hands, and brought his lips to Neville’s in a passionate, heady kiss.

Neville dropped his wand as his hands went to the small of Harry’s back and the back of his head, numb with delight and astonishment. He returned the kiss eagerly, hungrily, as though nothing else mattered in the world quite so much as this—and as far as he was concerned, nothing else did.

Neville backed Harry against the kitchen wall, lightly nipping his lower lip, pressing his body against Harry’s like he’d longed to do for so many years, tangling his fingers in the unruly hair. Desire and pure animal wanting filled him with such a burning ache that he moaned slightly as Harry ground his hips forward, just a little. Harry’s hands were grasping Neville’s back now, pulling him closer as Harry’s tongue stroked his—

The griddle started chirping shrilly in alarm, and Neville and Harry, involved though they were, separated with a gasp at the sound. The eggs, of course, were burning, and the griddle didn’t approve of that at all. Neville glanced about for his wand, but Harry pulled his out of his pocket, pointed it at the griddle, and the griddle went cold with one last reproachful chirp.

Neville turned and looked back at Harry, whose eyes were shining in the midst of a foolishly giddy expression.

“‘Good?’” Neville asked, slightly out of breath. “I reveal my deepest secret to you and all you can come up with is ‘good?’”

“Well, it is,” Harry said. “Because it means I wasn’t crazy imagining it, and that I’m not crazy for feeling the same way, but that we’re both crazy for dancing around the issue for two weeks.”

Neville caught Harry up in his arms again and their mouths met with astonishing heat. Neville allowed himself to get lost in the rhythm of it, velvet tongues caressing, bodies pressing against one another, hearts beating in time next to each other. He felt Harry’s hand snake up under his shirt to glide over his skin and goosebumps prickled his flesh. Suddenly the shirts were too much of a barrier between them, and he reached between them to unbutton the front of Harry’s enough to lift it over his head.

They parted again, somewhat reluctantly, so that the shirt could be removed. Harry glanced at the bedroom, then blushed. “I don’t...that is, I know how it’s done, obviously, with two blokes, I mean, but, er, I’ve never...”

“Shh,” Neville said, smiling, placing his finger over Harry’s lips. “I haven’t either. Let’s go figure it out for ourselves.”

Harry hesitated, just a split second, but enough. Neville somewhat timidly brushed a lock of hair out of Harry’s eyes.

“Harry,” he said. “We don’t need to take this too fast. If you want to, let’s just go...explore.” He looked seriously into Harry’s eyes. “I will never, ever make you do anything you’re not ready for. I promise.”

Harry smiled nervously. “You must think I’m a prat, acting like some thirty-something virgin princess.”

Neville chuckled. “I’m as much of the virgin here as you are. And I’m about as terrified as you are, too. But I think right now we both have a powerful need to get naked, so I say we go do that and see where it takes us.”

Harry’s answering smile was enough. Through the crack of the slightly ajar bedroom door, Harry could be seen enthusiastically unbuttoning Neville’s shorts, Neville could be seen ripping his tee shirt off over his head, then toppling Harry backwards onto the bed, and then nothing else could be seen at all for the rest of the day.

* * *

It was finally hunger that drove Harry and Neville out of the bedroom, clad in tee shirts and boxer shorts, not quite at that stage of comfortable nudity outside the bedroom with each other. They were almost never too far away from one another to reach out and touch them, make sure this was really happening, that it was actually real.

Over bowls of soup, they smiled bashfully at each other, acting for all the world like two lovestruck twenty-somethings the morning after a tryst—which, Neville reflected, was really how it should have been. This afternoon they had traveled back in time together to a world of could-have-beens, and found it greatly to their liking.

But now what? Neville contemplated his spoon for a moment before looking up and meeting Harry’s eyes.

“I know you didn’t want to dive into another relationship,” Neville said slowly, trying to figure out the best way to say it.

“I’m not,” Harry said, spooning some soup into his mouth. “I’m picking up where one left off a long time ago. There’s a difference, you see.”

Relief rushed through Neville’s chest, and a knot in his neck he didn’t know he had relaxed. It must have been visible, because Harry laughed.

“You really think, after all that, I’d say ‘Thanks, g’bye?’” He reached over to grab Neville’s hand. “It took twenty years for us to find each other. I’m not letting you get away that easily.” He smiled, squeezing Neville’s hand. “I do love you, and I’m an idiot for taking this long to realize it.”

The words found a little place inside Neville’s chest and curled there, warming his very being. He was fairly sure that his smile was shining brightly enough to illuminate their little patch of desert through the windows of the tent.

They finished their soup hastily and returned to the bedroom, too tired to do anything but hold each other, but that was enough.

It was more than enough. The sun set, bathing their tent in orange and purple, and they fell asleep in each others’ arms.

* * *

The next several days passed in a blissful haze. Contrary to what they joked they would do, they did not spend the entire time in the tent, discovering new ways to make each other gasp in surprise and pleasure. A significant number of daylight hours were devoted to wandering the desert, finding new vantage points upon which to take in the rugged beauty of the landscape. Hands were frequently held, and kisses stolen—or lingered, depending on what else they were doing at the time. Neville would always remember the dried-up stream bed where they had their actual, complete first time loving one another atop a blanket under the desert sky, in the shade of a curved rock formation that almost seemed amused at what it was witnessing—although Neville was sure that this was purely his imagination.

A true thunderstorm, heavy enough with water to actually rain, descended upon them late one afternoon and forced them to Apparate back to their tent hurriedly. They held each other lazily on the couch, listening to the sharp staccato of the raindrops on the tent roof punctuated by the rolling booms of the thunder, not requiring words to know how pleased and content and happy they were making each other just by being together. There was definitely something to be said for the frenzied lust and passion which marked most of their nights; there was also something supremely satisfying in the simple intimacy of holding and being held.

Neville woke suddenly. The storm was over, and had been for some time; he no longer heard the dripping from the eaves. Sunlight slanted through the kitchen window at an angle that he took to mean it was nearly sunset.

A grin split his face. Perfect.

“Harry,” he said, shaking the shoulder that was resting on his chest. “Wake up. I want to show you something.”

“Whassat?” Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

“Come on, get up. It’s outside.”

They both pulled themselves to their feet, stretching their backs and commenting that any sleeping they did from now on would be in beds, and didn’t it just suck getting old. Finally Neville pulled Harry by the elbow to the door and outside.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Woah...”

The tableau around them had metamorphosed into a canvas of bright colors. It seemed as though every grayish-green plant, every cactus, every shrub, every blade of sharp grass, had burst into bloom, treating them to a riotous carpet of whites, purples, pinks, and yellows.

“It doesn’t rain often,” Neville said softly, putting his arm gently around Harry’s shoulders. “But when it does, and you’re quick, you can catch a summer bloom before the sun sets for the day. Not as spectacular as a spring bloom, but...” he smiled, his eyes losing focus as he stared off into the distance. “Pretty spectacular anyway.”

Harry responded wordlessly with an arm around Neville’s waist. They stood, without speaking, watching the desert pulse with new life as the setting sun painted it blazing orange.

Neville sighed happily. He kissed the top of Harry’s head lightly. He was in his favorite place, with his favorite person, and he could return here year after year and have both, for the rest of his life if he wanted.

Life was good.


	10. Epilogue

Harry and Neville sat in the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, looking up into the fireplace every few seconds. Harry was perusing the Daily Prophet but Neville was too nervous to read much of anything, instead preferring to get up every five minutes or so and pace.

“Are you sure?” he asked, for probably the eighth time that morning. “I mean, is now the right time?”

Harry looked up from his paper. “It’s happening right now, isn’t it? I’d say that makes now the perfect time. No point to putting it off.”

Neville bobbed a quick nod and took his seat at the table again, tapping his foot anxiously.

“It will be fine,” Harry assured him, “And if it isn’t—”

The flames in the fireplace turned bright green and Harry didn’t have time to tell Neville what would happen if things weren’t fine. Something that resembled a small, red-haired rocket flew out of the fire and into Harry’s arms, nearly knocking his chair back.

“DAD!”

“Lil,” Harry said, his voice thick. He hugged his daughter tightly. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

“Happy birthday, Dad!” Lily said, reaching into her pocket. “I was going to send this by owl but I had to finish it, so I brought it.” She drew a card from inside her pocket and flourished it. Harry beamed.

The flames turned green again and Harry’s youngest son stepped out, looking for all the world like a miniature version of Harry.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” he said as Harry stood up and reached out an arm to bring him into the hug as well.

“Al,” he said fondly, “Did you get into a bottle of Skele-Gro, or are you really just that much taller?” Albus shrugged noncommittally.

The flames turned green, and deposited Harry’s eldest onto the hearth, coughing as though he’d accidentally inhaled some ash. He was clutching a broomstick tightly with both hands and stepped out uncertainly.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, his voice shaking as he desperately tried to pretend he wasn’t that excited. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, James,” Harry said, drawing him into a hug.

The flames turned green once more and Harry stared at them, dumbfounded.

“Mum’s coming too,” Lily piped up. “Just for a moment.”

“Ah,” Harry said, his eyes tightening just slightly.

The tension was palpable as Ginny stepped gracefully from the fireplace, a blue cake box in her arms. She smiled nervously and deposited it on the kitchen table.

“Mum sent a cake,” she said simply, “And says she hopes we’ll see you at the Chrismas hols.”

“Of course,” Harry said, nodding politely.

“Mum says we can stay with you until we all go to Hogwarts,” Albus butted in. “If it’s okay with you.”

“I get to go too this year!” Lily said, bubbling with excitement. “I get to go to Diagon Alley and get a wand and everything!”

“If it’s all right,” Ginny said quickly. “I don’t want to impose.”

Harry looked directly at his ex-wife. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Of course it’s all right.”

“Professor Longbottom?” James said suddenly, having just noticed Neville standing off to the side. The rest of the family turned. “What are you doing here?”

Neville’s tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, and he looked helplessly at Harry.

Harry smiled, strode around the table, and put his arm around Neville. “Kids,” he said, “You of course know Neville Longbottom, from school and from some years ago when he would sometimes come around. We were good friends at school, and we’ve decided that it’s now more than that. We’re seeing each other, and I’m happy to say it’s quite serious.”

This remark was met with astonished silence. James raised an eyebrow, then shrugged with just a bit too much casual panache. “Does this mean we don’t get any more Herbology homework?” he asked.

Neville smiled anxiously. “No. But it does mean you’ll get more help on it over the holidays if you ask.”

He couldn’t help but glance in Ginny’s direction, and found that Harry’s gaze was pointed in that direction as well. Ginny’s arms were crossed and her eyes slightly narrow, but then she smiled as though she had just worked something out.

“It’s about time,” she said simply. “You always were moony for him, Neville.” She turned to Harry, seeming to enjoy the expression her comment had brought to Neville’s face. “I’ll send their trunks along this afternoon, then. They haven’t gotten their school supplies yet, so you’ll want to do that...and I promised Lily an owl of her own.”

“I’ll make sure it all gets done,” Harry promised.

Ginny nodded, hugged and kissed each child with an admonishment to behave, grasped a handful of Floo powder from the jar by the fireplace, then hesitated. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, a trifle formally. “And you too, I suppose, Neville.” She smiled, a little more warmly. “I hope to see you both at Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” Neville said. Ginny nodded, threw the powder into the fire, and then was gone.

“So how did...this...happen?” James asked, gesturing between Harry and Neville as he raided a box of biscuits from the pantry.

“It’s...a bit of a long story,” Harry said, exchanging a look with Neville.

“Is it okay?” Neville asked, heart racing. James shrugged.

“It’s a little weird, I didn’t know Dad was...well...” he shrugged again, as though hesitant to provide the suitable word. “And as it’s my professor, that’s weird too...”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Albus broke in defiantly.

“Me too,” Lily added.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” James added hurriedly. “It is. With bells on. It’s just...still weird. You and Mum only just split up and all.” His eyes went a little wide. “Was it...because of...”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “As I told you three before, your mum and I divorced because we just weren’t right for each other, and we finally admitted it. It had nothing to do with my personal preferences for relationships, nor did it have anything to do with Neville. This was just...a happy accident.”

“Well, that’s all right then.” James gave a single nod and turned to Neville. “You going to make me call you Dad?” he asked a little challengingly. Neville smiled awkwardly.

“Only if you want to. Neville is fine. Professor Longbottom while we’re at school.”

“All right.” He stuck out a hand, glanced at it, brushed off the biscuit crumbs, then offered it again. “Welcome to the family, I suppose.”

Neville’s awkward smile broadened and he returned James’s handshake. “Thank you, James. It means a lot to me, coming from you.”

James nodded, then shot a sly glance at Harry. “You could have done worse, you should see the great prat Mum brought home—”

Harry held up a hand. “I won’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of your mother in this house. That’s a rule. Understood?”

The three Potter children nodded.

“So can I call you Dad? Like Dad One and Dad Two?” Lily asked Neville brightly.

Neville swallowed a lump in his throat. “Sure, if it makes you happy.”

“Cool.” She smiled broadly. “Just not at school. That’d be weird.”

“All right,” Harry said, seeing that Neville needed a moment to compose himself. “Everyone, go change into something more appropriate for shopping. You’ve got your school lists, we’ll go ahead and go to Diagon Alley today, as there’s some time while we wait for your trunks. I want you back down here in five minutes!” he shouted after their tumultuous exit from the kitchen.

Harry beamed at Neville once they stood alone in the kitchen. “I told you everything would be fine.”

Neville returned the smile. “And you were right.” He reached around Harry’s waist and brought him closer. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Happy birthday, Neville.”


End file.
